


Letter Writing to Afghanistan

by 8BeautifulChaosGirl8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Correspondence, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Military John, Military Ranks, Military Training
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 41,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8BeautifulChaosGirl8/pseuds/8BeautifulChaosGirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock AU. Sherlock gets involved in a letter writing campaign to up troop morale in Afghanistan. Who should receive his letter but our very own John Watson? What follows is a roller-coaster of experiences and emotions that change both men irreparably... WARNING: contains medical jargon, details of graphic war violence and trauma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1st Contact

Dear Anonymous soldier  
You are probably wondering why some random you don’t know is writing to you. Frankly I'm wondering myself. But I have the kind of mind which if left idle, will fall apart on itself. My mind is like a runaway engine and requires constant fuelling through stimulation and activity. Usually I occupy myself with solving crimes that the police force cannot but unfortunately the criminal classes have been unusually well behaved as of late. My landlady has forbidden me to smoke and I have temporarily run out of nicotine patches. Therefore when I saw this appeal for letters to soldiers, I took the opportunity. Surely interesting things happen in a warzone. Do reply as soon as possible and don’t, for goodness sake, don’t be boring.   
Sherlock Holmes. (Consulting detective)   
\---  
Dear Mr. Holmes. 

I was indeed surprised to receive this unrequested letter. My wonderment only increased however as I read your letter. Rather than introducing yourself, as I would expect a first time letter writer would, you proceed to tell me all about the inner workings of your brain. An unorthodox method of letter writing to say the least. But, it would be hypocritical for me to continue because I have not introduced myself to you. I am John Watson, second lieutenant of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers. I am aware this will probably not be the stimulation you are looking for but I for one am still bound by social convention. I would like very much to hear more about this job of yours, consulting detective. You are the first one I have ever come across. Are there many people in your line of work? What kind of cases do you take?   
As for me and my situation I am afraid it is not very interesting at present. I have been here for a month and so far no action. Not that I'm over eager to go out and shoot ‘em up but I'm going out of my mind here. On this front I empathize with you Mr. Holmes. Please do reply soon. I hope I didn’t bore you too much but remember at least you have access to day time television.   
J Watson. 

Dear J Watson  
First of all, do refer to me as Sherlock, not Mr. Holmes. “Mr. Holmes” reminds me of my rather insufferable older brother. You are correct when you say this was not the stimulation I was looking for Mr. or should I say, Dr. Watson. While there weren’t any riveting stories of military action or wartime injuries I did enjoy the slight acerbity you have to your wit. Your letter also gave me the opportunity for a little long distance deduction. I figured out that you are a relatively young man of short stature and you are left handed. You are living in a hot dry climate, either Iraq or Afghanistan and have not acclimatized as of yet.   
As for your questions, it is no surprise that I am the first consulting detective you have come across. The fact is I am the only consulting detective you will ever come across. I invented the profession. As a rule I only take on cases that interest me. For example there was one just recently that appeared to be a string of suicides but was in fact murders committed by a London cabbie. Simple really, when you pay attention to the facts. 

Dear Sherlock.   
Flabbergasted. Yes, I think that’s the word that I eventually settled on. I started this letter many times with an assortment of other words but “flabbergasted” articulated my feelings the best. How on earth do you know that I'm a doctor? I guessing that you guessed I was left handed by the angle of my writing but my height and age? (I am indeed young and short. Fun sized as Harry puts it). As for me being in Iraq or Afghanistan I am at a loss. (It’s Afghanistan by the way) The only returning address on the envelope is the mailing centre in Cardiff! Never doubt that you are in the right profession Mr. Holmes, sorry, Sherlock.


	2. The Reply

Dear Mr. Watson  
You are to be congratulated on an utterly singular achievement, lieutenant. You have subverted my expectations. In short, you have surprised me, which no one has ever done before. Allow me to explain. The usual reception to my deductions, and thusly the one I have come to expect is one of annoyance and unease. “Piss off” is the usual reply so it was a surprise to receive such… praise. But the observations I made were really quite simple. I deduced your profession by the legibility of your writing. I see from the flicks of your y’s and e’s and the lack of pressure on the page, that you are a man used to writing down copious information in a short period of time. That limited it to professions such as a receptionist (which the army has no use for) or something in the medical profession (the more likely conclusion)   
You guessed that I deduced your dominant writing hand from the angle of your writing which was correct. It was the very same variable that allowed me to deduce your height. The angle of you writing does not suggest the writer was hunched over as he wrote, which a tall man would if he was writing on his lap, something which you clearly do, so short or rather “fun sized” it is. The tone of your writing hinted at your age. This leaves your location. The sweaty finger prints suggest heat; the amount suggests your body has not yet acclimatized. A simple check of where the British army is currently located yielded the two possible answers of Iraq or Afghanistan. Still “flabbergasted”?

Dear Sherlock  
Come now, if you insist on being Sherlock I must insist on being John. Just John. Some of my army friends call me “Johnny boy” which I detest (which is probably why they do it). In answer to your concluding question yes I am still flabbergasted. Your deduction is a gift to be appreciated Sherlock. I'd get yourself a good publicist if I were you. I cannot imagine any of your deductions warranting a “piss off”.  
As for what’s happening on my end, still no word as to when we will be moving off. Please do keep writing. Your letters are becoming something I look forward to, another chance to get to know this enigma of a man a little better. Why don’t you write about one of the cases you have solved? Going over past triumphs is a great boost to the self esteem and gives me another chance to marvel at your genius (sorry I'm babbling. Didn’t think you could do that in a letter but there you go. I'll shut up now.)   
John Watson. 

Dear John.   
Very well, I will describe to you the details of the case I alluded to in an earlier letter, the one that appeared to be serial suicides but were in fact murders.   
They appeared to the less than astute police force to be suicides because the cause of death was self administered poisoning. This conclusion did not however factor in all the facts (forgive that little piece of word play). All of the victims were found in places they had no business being, places that were out of the way and none of them showed a history of behaviours that would account for suicide. The first victim was Sir Jeffery Patterson, a well off business man having an affair with his secretary, found in an empty office building. The second was an 18 year old called James “Jimmy” Phillimore, found in a sports centre. The third, the newly elected junior minister of transport Beth Davenport, found on a building site. From the time the third one was discovered the police force began to treat them as linked though they had no idea how they were linked. It was only when the fourth victim, Jennifer Wilson was discovered in Lauriston Gardens that they thought to call me in. Which is a shame as I'm sure I could have solved it previously. The fourth victim was distinct from the others in that she left a note “Rache” carved in the floor, which I deduced to be Rachel, though I had no knowledge at the time that this was. From the body I deduced a few simple things, firstly that she was left handed (the message on the ground), that she worked in the media (she was wearing an alarming shade of pink all over her body, nail polish coat and shoes), that she had been married, unhappily, for 10+years (the rest of her jewelry showed signs of regular cleaning but not her wedding or engagement ring), that she was a serial adulterer (while the outside of the rings was dirty the inside was clean, polished with regular working off the finger), that she’d travelled from Cardiff with the intent of staying in London for one night (the damp condition of her clothes coinciding with weather reports and the size of her suitcase)  
Long story short, it turned out the killer was a London cabbie that got a kick out of playing mind games. He tried it on with me, offering me two pills, one poisoned and one safe. He challenged me to take one and he would take the other. Unfortunately just as I was about to, we were interrupted by the police force who had been led there by following the GPS on my phone (much the same way I originally found the killer. “Rachel” was the password which allowed me to access a network which tracks cell phones. Mrs. Wilson was clever) I was quite confident I had deduced which pill was safe and which was not but, thanks to the bumbling police force, I never got a chance to find out.   
I did however find out the killer was working for another man, “a sponsor” as he termed it, by the name of Moriarty. This is interesting and something I will have to ponder on further.   
How about you John? What do you make of all this?  
Sherlock Holmes 

Dear Sherlock   
That was the longest letter I ever read but it was worth it! Better than any mystery novel, because it was real! To think, you solved a murder by looking at a woman’s wedding ring! Well sort of. On the other hand it sounds like you’re putting yourself in a lot of unnecessary danger, like what you said about those pills. Those police officers saved your life and you’re sore about an untested hypothesis? Take it from a soldier Sherlock, life is more valuable than affirming how clever you are. I don’t mean to be preachy, just honest.   
Maybe you should get someone who can keep an eye on you like a girlfriend (or boyfriend if you’re that way inclined) or something. Someone who you can bounce hypothesizes off but who will also keep you safe. Something to think about? (I don’t mean to pry) I'm being called away now but I'll get back to writing ASAP.  
(Written later) I think I read about that case you mentioned in the paper. We get sent the paper from home sometimes (on a good day) but it says it was solved thanks to the efforts of someone called D.I. Lestrade. Someone stealing your thunder?   
John Watson.


	3. The mystery/relationship deepens

Dear John.   
Firstly I must apologize for the unfortunate connotations that go along with this salutation. I was discussing our correspondence with a friend and he informed me the negative associations that go along with receiving a “dear John” letter.   
Secondly to address your initial thoughts expressed on the outline I gave you of the case. Might I say, while it is pleasant to read such lavish praises, please do not feel constrained upon to remark in this manner every time I speak of my deductive accomplishments. I am fully aware of the extent of my intellect and do not require constant nursing of the ego.   
Thirdly, an answer to your concerns of danger and inquiries as to any romantic attachments I may have I must tell you that, while flattered by your interest, attachments of any kind are not my area and I consider myself married to my work so as such have no… opening for such an attachment. I hope that such a discovery will not mean we cannot correspond further.  
Fourthly and finally, your question as to the fact that my reports and those of the recent newspaper do not add up. Because I have no interest in recognition, I mentioned earlier that I am fully aware of the extent of my intellect; I allow the police force to take the credit for my work. It also sets me in good stead for future endeavors with the police force and prevents undue attention to the fact that an “unqualified” person is working in the police force.   
I hope this clears up any confusion  
Sherlock Holmes. 

Dear Sherlock.   
You seem to have got the wrong end of the stick regarding my innocent platonic inquiry as to your “attachments”. Let me make this clear, I was not expressing an interest. I was not asking you out. I am entirely straight. I hope this clears up your confusion.   
I did laugh however when you commented on the negative connotations of the “Dear John” opening. Frankly it’s something I've never thought of before. But, please don’t tell people you are sending me “Dear John“letters. They might get the wrong idea and start to talk…   
Regarding your comment on my “lavish” praise, I assure you I don’t do it to “nurse your ego”. It’s all genuine.   
As for news at my end, it seems my unit will be mobilized soon. Finally, something to write home about. Not that I do. Write home that is. You are the only one I regularly correspond with. We’ll be a security force employed in one of the local towns, to keep the peace, root out landmines, recruit camps and Taliban sympathizers, as well as offering protection to potential targets. I'll probably be spending my time at the local hospital, which is horrendously under staffed as you would expect. While I am looking forward to having something to do and finally being of some use, the thought of working in the hospital of an army zone does not enthuse me. One can only see so many shot children, mangled legs and starvation victims before they become numb. That is a thing I dread above all else Sherlock. Being feeling-less.

Dear John   
Several things both interested and confused me about your letter. Please rest assured that the earlier confusion about my “attachments” is cleared up. Two things about your letter confused me and confusion is not a feeling I am comfortable with and therefore not something I will tolerate. Firstly you wrote that I am the only one who you regularly correspond with. Were I there with you I would be able to deduce why but I am somewhat impeded by the distance between us. It is for this reason that I ask you, why I am the only one you correspond with? Have you no close friends or family back home to write to?   
Secondly I am interested about your concluding statement, about the fear of being feeling-less. The feelings you referenced were negative feelings that cause suffering. Why are you so anxious to hang on to them? Surely you could work better if you were to put such things out of your head. This is the way I work as I have found it to be most effective. Sentiment is a weakness that slows the brain and impedes progress. At least I have always found it to be so. This belief has led some people to believe I am heartless or even sociopathic but that is simply the way I view life. I hope this does not mean we can not correspond further.   
Sherlock Holmes.


	4. The Warning

“What you up to Watson?” One of John’s comrades plunked down next to him, forking peaches out of the can. John looked up from the letter and smiled at her. He always thought she was kind of pretty, despite the buzz cut and inevitable dirty face.   
“Don’t you have anything better to do Donovan than spy on me?” He asked, giving her a teasing nudge.   
“Like what? Clean out my foot locker again? Take a shower just to get dirty straight after, again? C’mon, tell me!” Donovan nudged him back.   
“I'm just replying to a letter.”  
“Who’s the letter from?”   
“A friend.”  
“This friend have a name?”   
John rolled his eyes, a little annoyed with Donovan’s prying now “Holmes”  
Donovan started and set the peaches down “Holmes? As in Sherlock Holmes?”  
John looked round at her in surprise. “Yeah! How’d you know?”  
Donovan pursed her lips, saying nothing. She seized the can and exited John’s tent, ignoring his calls of protest at her exiting back. He furrowed his brow and set his pen down, unable for now to keep writing. 

Dear John Watson.   
You don’t know me but I am Sally, the sister of your friend Christine Donovan. She has informed me that recently you have somehow got yourself involved with Sherlock Holmes. This is why I am writing to you. I am part of the police team that is forced to work with Sherlock and I believe you deserve to be warned of the truth. Being away from and conversing with him only in letters you won’t realize the extent of the danger you have brought upon yourself. Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous, disturbed man. He solves crime, that you know, but what you don’t know is why. He’s not paid and he doesn’t do it for fame. He gets off on it. The weirder it is the more off he gets. I am deadly serious Mr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath and one day, I seriously believe that solving crimes won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock will be the one who put it there. Just because he’s bored. He’s that kind of person. I'm warning you John, as a concerned party. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!   
Sally Donovan 

Dear John Watson   
Do you plan to consider this correspondence with Sherlock Holmes and if so, for how long?   
Anon 

Dear Anon.   
I could be wrong (which I highly doubt) but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.   
Yours sincerely, John Watson   
Ps. Who the hell are you and why do you care? 

Dear John Watson   
I write to you to make a proposition. Do not concern yourself with my identity. I have recently become aware of your correspondence with a certain Sherlock Holmes. Do not concern yourself with how I came about this information. My proposition is this. You report to me any relevant information you receive about Sherlock and his doings via this correspondence. I am aware you will receive the information a while after the events have taken place. It is the views expressed regarding those events I wish to hear of, if he expresses anything personal or private to you, something you believe he has not expressed to anyone else, this is the information I require to be passed on. Naturally you would be… rewarded for such efforts. I sincerely hope I have made myself clear. Let me assure you I have no malicious intent. I worry for Sherlock. I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock has, though he calls me his “arch enemy”   
Anon


	5. John shows his colors

Dear Sherlock   
What a week it’s been over here. In between packing up to head out, that startling letter from you and the messages from your “fan club” left right and centre. First a comrade of mine tattles on me to her sister (honestly I haven’t been tattled on since primary school) who writes to me about the horror it is to work with you. Someone you've pissed off? Then I get a letter from your “arch enemy”. Sherlock, real people don’t have arch enemies! He’s offering me money to spy on you! Who does that?!   
Moving on to your reply. I may as well be honest with you; you can’t look down your nose at me from this far away. My parents are dead. My mother of a stroke and my father, car accident. The only close family I have left is Harry who I have lost to the bottom of a bottle, irretrievably despite many promises to the contrary about rehab and recovery. All the friends I have (none of them particularly close) are over here with me. You have given me a reason to write home Sherlock, the only reason I have.   
Secondly you wrote about feelings and your confusion surrounding them. In many ways I am in awe of you Sherlock. Your keen intellect, your skills of observation, your dedication to your craft. This sets you up well for the work you do. But I'm a doctor Sherlock. I take care of people and to do that I need to feel. To treat them to the best of my abilities I must know what they feel and feel it with them, to know how to alleviate the pain I must fully understand it. But more than that. I need feelings for my own sake. Feelings connect me to the world; help me make sense of it. Without them I am no better than an animal, a rock, a free floating form in total isolation from it all.   
But anyway, getting past all this introspective, existential stuff. What do I do about this “arch enemy” of yours?   
John Watson. 

Dear John   
I believe it is the socially accepted convention to offer my sympathies for the death of your parents, something I find completely ridiculous as I had no hand in it whatsoever and surely my words will not actually have much of a placating effect. Besides this, you do seem to have come to terms with the loss. As to the situation with your sister I confess I have no knowledge of alcoholism. My strongest vice is cigarettes, impossible though it is to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. I am happy that I have given you a reason to write home (odd though that is to me)   
Your thoughts on feelings and the necessity of their existence intrigued me, part of the reason I am so interested in our correspondence and earnest that it continue. The sentiments you expressed are completely unique in all those I have ever heard. You seem to be saying that feelings make you more human and this benefits you because it allows you to empathize with the humans you treat. While I have no qualms with this statement I find myself in strong disagreement with the logic that followed when you applied the necessity of feelings to yourself personally. Why on earth would you want to be more human? Surely it is humanism that started the Afghan conflict, humanism that causes the mangled legs and starvation you dread so much? Surely it would be better to be above it all, unaffected by it? I do not mean to be callous or cold hearted in this reasoning, it is what I believe to be true.   
Regarding the paltry occurrence of my “arch enemy” contacting you (do real people really not have them? How dull for them. What do they have instead?) Do not regard it of any importance. It is my brother, Mycroft who is the British government though he would insist he only inhabits a minor position. Take the money (you could probably do with it) and tell him anything you like. It is of no importance to me in the slightest.   
As for the sister who contacted you, I can only assume it was Sally Donovan. She is indeed one of the blights I am forced to deal with whenever I work with Scotland Yard. I have, as you said “pissed her off” by offering my honest opinions on the minute intellects of both her and her lover, a Mr. Anderson. Please do not mention them in future, they irritate me exceedingly and, even worse, they are thoroughly boring.   
Sherlock Holmes 

Dear Sherlock 

You really are an interesting human being, Sherlock. You are making me consider angles that I never dreamed of before now. That being said I am afraid I must stand by my previous statements. I need feelings Sherlock for this simple reason. Humanity is a double edged sword. Wielded correctly it has amazing power. For some reason or other you seem to have a very negative opinion of humanity, believing it only to be a force for destruction or atrocious acts. While it must be admitted that it is so, it is not only so. The same humanity that plants bombs saves people from them. The same humanity that leads people to shoot each other in cold blood leads others to slave through the night in barely sanitary conditions to save them. I choose to be those others, Sherlock. If I placed myself above it all I would put myself in a position of nullified potential, of uselessness. I wouldn't be able to help, to change, to stop it all. And what is happening here needs to be stopped Sherlock. I'm not talking about the agenda the middle east is supposed to have or anything like that, but the senseless loss of life. That needs to stop. If by my humanity I can save just one life I consider it a privilege to experience all the crap this war throws my way. 

Looking back on all this, and our previous conversations, it has just occurred to me how deeply personal and introspective these letters have become. I'm talking to you freely about things I wouldn't discuss with a close family member or even a therapist. This ought to be awkward but it isn't. I feel, without ever having met you, that I can trust you Sherlock. I know you despise sentiment but I must be honest with you Sherlock. Why does this not seem crazier? it seems like it really ought to, but I’m fine with it. is that strange? I don't know. This all being said I would very much like to receive a photo of you Sherlock. there are none in the papers I have received (camera shy?) and I would like to put a face to your words. Personify the enigma if you will. (I’m desperately hoping I don't sound like a lonely loser here. If I am let me down gently Sherlock) I would likewise send you a photo, if you'd like.

P.S. fine, if you insist, I'll take the money from your brother (why can’t he just talk to you like a normal person?) but I refuse to tell him anything remotely near the truth. Does he read your mail or something? How does he even know about my letters? Also, yes no one in real life actually has an arch enemy. They usually have things like friends, acquaintances, people they vaguely despise but are too polite to say so, etc. 

Warm regards,  
John Watson.


	6. Sherlock's first experience

Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes of the paper. He must have read the letter 5 times at least but he couldn’t stop himself going over it yet again. It was staring him in the face but he didn’t dare believe it. It wasn’t just John’s reasoning regarding feelings (which he did admit was admirable) but the undertone of the whole thing. These two pages of yellowed, wrinkled paper scrawled over in a near illegible doctor’s hand had shaken the very bedrock of his identity to the core. He knew he was. The troubled genius. The sociopath. The freak. Above all he was alone. Friendless. Yet here was this letter. He could read the signs clear as day. The time taken over it. The frequent mentions of his name, written almost in fondness. The remark about trust he had so blithely made. The fact he felt confident enough to risk looking like “a lonely loser”. The request for a photo. John Watson was addressing him as more than just a distraction, a relief from boredom. He was addressing him as a treasured acquaintance or even… (dare he say it?) … a friend.   
He knew the signs he just couldn’t make sense of them in the context of interaction with himself. This was unprecedented. There was no guidance in his mind palace for this situation. He could name 42 different kinds of ash and 33 different types of perfume but couldn’t recognize social signals directed at him. For the first time in his life this felt like a flaw. 

What if John was joking? Using sarcasm? What if he was just a naturally overly friendly person? What if he thought this was just what Sherlock wanted to hear? What if he was just thinking of someone else? And then, an even scarier thought. What if he actually meant it that way? If only he was actually here! Sherlock could analyze body language, voice inflection and a myriad of other things to support or refute his hypothesis. Here, on the other side of the world he could only… ask. If he was wrong he’d look like an idiot. Maybe John would be so sick of his ineptness he’d stop writing! But, what if it was true and he didn’t ask? He couldn’t just not know! He cried in frustration and hurled his mug of tea at the wall, barely even registering the wet splashing smash.   
He sat there for 3 hours more, agonizing over it until he could take it no longer. He had to get out; the walls were closing in on him here. He must get out. Where would he go? An idea popped into his head. There was always the matter of Mycroft’s snooping that needed to be dealt with. Yes, he would pay his brother a visit. Insufferable as he was, Sherlock couldn’t stay in the flat another minute. He hailed the first cab he could and instructed it in the direction of Mycroft’s favorite dinner club.   
Mycroft was mopping up the remnants of his gravy with a dinner roll when the doors burst open, eliciting a collective gasp from all the occupants. Mycroft sighed in annoyance. He had wondered when this was coming. Trust his younger to make a scene. When he caught sight of him he couldn’t stifle a groan. He was not even decent, hair askew, clad only in a dressing gown (openly revealing his bare chest) and ratty pajama bottoms. In this hall of suits and silk he was painfully out of place. But, of course, he couldn’t care less. The stares of all and sundry mattered not a jot to him. Well they mattered to Mycroft. He had a professional image to maintain and he would not allow it to be sullied by his idiot younger brother! 

“Sherlock, what is the meaning of this!” he took his arm, meaning to lead him into a more private room but Sherlock jerked it away.   
“Don’t take that high and mighty tone! Now is not the time to care about your image! You’ve been reading my mail!”   
Mycroft grit his teeth. “Sherlock I will discuss this with you, gladly but not in public” Again he took his brother’s arm and thankfully this time he allowed himself to be led away. The second they were out of sight he wrenched free.   
“Honestly brother dear, must you always make a scene? What would mother and father say?”  
Sherlock was not in the mood for Mycroft’s condescension, nor the invoking of his parent’s constant disapproval.   
“You do know mail tampering is illegal. I'm not a child anymore Mycroft, why can’t you just let me be?” he slammed the table with perhaps a little more force than necessary, disturbing quite a few vital papers.   
Mycroft calmly rearranged them. “I never opened any of your letters. Any correspondence from those in positions of power to foreign countries must be monitored for security reasons” 

Relieved as he was that Mycroft hadn’t been reading his letters (he could tell if he was lying) Sherlock still felt his privacy had been violated. Which was odd. He’d never resented any of his brother’s other efforts to keep tabs on him, at least not like this. They’d been mild annoyances but Mycroft was overstepping a line when it came to encroaching on his relationship with John (did John and he even have a relationship?). His letters to John were no one’s business but John’s and his.   
“Why monitor the letters if you aren’t going to read them? This is not about security and you know it. This is about your obsession with running my life.”   
Mycroft raised his eyebrows in that infuriating way he always did when Sherlock slipped into any fragment of emotion. “Brother mine, national security is in my job description. I hold no interest in your little idiosyncratic life”   
The mention of his attempts at recruiting John as a spy was just on the tip of his tongue but Sherlock swallowed it. If Mycroft knew that Sherlock knew he wouldn’t pay John. John deserved the money. So, hard as it was to back down from a fight with his brother, he did so.   
“Stay out of my life Mycroft” he said, with as much scorn as he could muster turning and leaving.   
He was entirely unsatisfied with the outcome of that confrontation and so took it out on the flat. He hurled things at the wall, vaguely wishing he had a gun to shoot. John probably had a gun. John. His arm went limp to his side and he slid down onto his chair, head in his hands. Why was this so hard? Ordinary every day people could do it and they were morons! Even Anderson could have negotiated this situation with ease. Sherlock bristled at the thought, sticking out his tongue as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted to be right so badly but was terrified of being wrong. Sherlock had never been terrified in his life. He decided, quite definitely that he did not like it.   
3 weeks later   
Sherlock had just tied off the tourniquet and was about to plunge the needle into his vein when he heard it. The click clack flap of the mail slot. That meant mail. Mail meant John. John! He ripped the dressing gown cord off his arm and threw the syringe aside, hurtling down the stairs to the front door. He met Mrs. Hudson on the way, who was full of ooey gooey cheerfulness (as she always was) but breezed right past her, seizing the envelopes at the door and racing back upstairs.   
“Sherlock some of those are mine!” she cried, but he had her on mute and didn’t hear a word. She huffed in annoyance as the door slammed closed. It was no use trying for them now.   
Sherlock tossed aside the ones addressed to Mrs. Hudson, swearing in frustration until he got to that wonderful brown envelope with his name on it. It was only the thought of tearing the letter inside that made him reach for a letter opener and not just rip the bloody thing in half. With shaking hands, he broke the seal, pulled the paper free, unfolded it and began to read.

Dear Sherlock   
I haven’t received anything from you. Usually your letters are like clockwork. Did it get lost in the mail or have you stopped writing. Please don’t stop. I really enjoy your letters. Was it because I asked for a picture? If it is you don’t have to send me one. It’s really no problem. Did my comments about feelings offend you? I'm sorry I really didn’t mean it. Maybe you've just been too busy and I'm making an arse of myself. I hope not, and yet at the same time, really hope so. Please write back Sherlock. Please.   
John Watson 

He’d missed him. He wanted him to write back. Really, really wanted him to. He’d hurt John, made him worry. He had to fix this. Suck it up Sherlock! Be brave! He seized up a pen, threw himself onto his desk and began to write. Furiously.


	7. Friendly Banter

Dear John   
Many, many apologies for the lateness of this letter. It did not get lost in the mail. It wasn’t because you asked for a picture or offended me in any way. The lateness of this letter is entirely my own fault. Bear with me now John because I am going into what is, for me, unchartered territory. I must confess, due to my disdain for sentiment I am quite inept when it comes to any kind of emotional interaction. It is for this reason I have been delaying. I received some signals from your last letter that I did not know how to interpret; I will not bore you with semantics. This is a question I have agonized over asking you for the whole length of my silence. Are you, attempting to… Was your letter written as… John Watson do you want to be my friend? 

John smiled more and more as he read the letter. First with relief that Sherlock had finally sent something, then fondly as he told of his “disdain for sentiment”, in confusion when he spoke of “signals he did not know how to interpret” and finally one of delight when he at last came out and asked “John Watson do you want to be my friend?”  
He hurriedly took out some paper and began to scribble out a reply 

Sherlock   
You are without doubt the most intelligent man I have ever met. Wasn’t it Socrates who said he who admits his ignorance is the wisest? It took guts to admit the fact that you struggle with feelings Sherlock and so I'm going to reward those guts with being blatantly obvious. You are my friend Sherlock. I am yours. I have never met you and I am closer to you than I ever was with any of my “mates” at school or even my fellow soldiers. Ours is an odd friendship but still as genuine and valid as any other. So your question should not have been “do you want to be my friend?” it should have been “shall we continue to be friends?” and the answer I give you is an unequivocal yes.   
John Watson   
Dear Anon 

Since you are so eager to keep tabs on Sherlock I will indulge you. However I still have misgivings about the ethics of all of this so we will do this my way. Every time I update you, I will give you one truth and 2 lies. It is up to you to pick the truth. You will decide which one you think is true and write back to me, taking whatever action you see fit regarding Sherlock. If you do pick the truth from the lies you do not have to pay me for that update. If you get it wrong I pocket the fee. 

Here's your first one. Judging from Sherlock's recent correspondence with me it is evident that he has   
A. taken up adult ballet   
B. taken a great leap forward emotionally   
C. taken up the practice of experimenting with the effects of alkaloids on hamsters. 

Your move mystery man  
John Watson 

Sherlock's phone beeped. He took it from his pocket, thinking it to be Lestrade with a case. Instead, his brother's name glowed out at him. He furrowed his brow in confusion and annoyance. What did his overbearing sibling want now? 

Please stop poisoning small mammals Sherlock. The RSPCA do tend to frown upon that sort of thing - MH 

What the hell? What that supposed to mean? Was he high? Was it code? He didn't have time to ponder on it however. The mail had arrived.

It started with a compliment. That was good, right? It continued on in the complimentary vein and became increasingly heartfelt, causing strange panging like sensations in his chest. When he actually read the words “You are my friend Sherlock” he literally laughed out loud with joy. Had he been a lesser restrained man he would have hugged the letter to his chest. Fortunately he wasn’t a lesser restrained man and resisted that urge. He’d felt thrills before. As a child at Christmas (before he’d learned to deduce the gift) and as an adult from solving cases and surviving high risk situations. But the thrill he felt now was completely new. The thrill of connection, of knowing someone out there was waiting to hear from him, someone who cared about him and what he had to say. Now he had to take some time out, a moment on the violin or some nicotine patches so the letter he wrote in reply was not emotionally compromising. 

Dear John   
You cannot know just how honored I am to receive this news that a friendship exists between us. I confess I am both flattered and daunted to be put in this position. I was even very close to being moved by it. I will endeavor to do my very best in fulfilling my role as friend and pen-pal (that term is so juvenile but I could think of no other) but I am afraid this is all quite new to me so you will have to bear with me on a few points.   
Things have going very slowly regarding case work at the moment. The crimes coming in have been so banal that even Anderson has had no trouble in bringing the mindless culprits to justice so it goes without saying that I am very, very bored as of late. Boredom is not just something I experience. It is a black cloud of ennui that I feel deep in my bone marrow, the thick tar of inactivity that threatens to swallow me whole. Your letters have been the one chink of light to pierce the gloom and this is another reason I am immensely thankful to you. You give me something to do, your friendship and trust motivates me in a way I have never experienced with anyone else.   
It is because of this motivation that there is a package accompanying this letter. Part of being in correspondence with army personnel overseas is to send them “care packages” and as I stated earlier, I want to fulfill my role in this “odd but genuine” friendship. I have also enclosed a photo of myself so you will know what I look like (I have been informed by Lestrade, one of my more tolerable colleagues that it is called a “selfie” but obviously he’s just being ridiculous.) I hope you derive satisfaction and enjoyment from both the letter and the package.   
Your friend, Sherlock Holmes. 

“Mail call! Mail’s here!”   
John hurriedly put his gun and cleaning rag away and hurried to join the crowd amassing around the mail clerk.   
“Anything for me Danny?” John asked when it came to be his turn.   
Danny grinned “Oh yeah! Got two thing for you!”  
“Two letters?”  
“No, a letter and a package!” Danny gushed, hefting a brown paper wrapped box out from his bag. John accepted it bemusedly, aware of the looks from the others. No one got packages anymore, except from the red-cross. This was a personalized package. John turned it over, looking for the return address. And there it was on an adhesive label “221b Baker Street”. Sherlock. John hurried his package away to his quarters so he could go through it without nosy eyes watching.


	8. It get's deeper

Of course he read the letter first. It made him smile and chuckle a little to himself. The letter was so quintessentially Sherlock. A stunning mix of enigmatic insight, depth of character self awareness and endearing naivety. He put it aside in the box he kept all of Sherlock’s letters in and tore the wrapping from the box. The first thing he pulled out was hard, flat, and plastic. He brought it into the light, revealing it to be a sealed petri dish of mold culture. He furrowed his brow. The note taped to it read “something to study should you get any free time” He shook his head.   
“Thanks Sherlock. Just what I always wanted.”  
The rest of the package was equally perplexing. Vivid crime scene photos of people with their heads bashed in and the like. Case files with the challenge to figure out who did it as well as well as some completed ones. A tape of his violin playing (John did enjoy that). Taped daytime television with a note that read “I have recently developed an unhealthy addiction to these programmes and remembering an earlier allusion to daytime TV in one of your previous letters, thought you may enjoy this” (a whole 2 days worth of Doctor Phil, Ellen and at home shopping. Whoo-hoo). Old newspapers and cigarettes. All packaged up with evident thought and care. Sherlock had packed all the things that he would like to receive. John smiled fondly and resignedly at these items which were really of no use to him whatsoever. He did appreciate Sherlock’s trying.   
“Hey Johnny boy!” John tensed at the moniker he hated so and poked his head out to see who it was. It was Danny holding another package.   
“Found this at the bottom of my bag. It’s addressed to you too.”  
“What? Another one?” John took the passage and looked at the returning address. It read 221a Baker street” Sherlock’s neighbor? Why was Sherlock’s neighbor sending him a package? He broke the seal of the envelope taped to the top and read the letter. 

Dear Soldier.   
I am Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s neighbor and landlady. He gave this to me to post (after which I wrangled the story out of him about what it was all about) and I confess I had a peek. Sherlock means well but the things he sent are well… odd, as I'm sure you’ll agree. He would have been devastated if all his hard work had gone to waste so I sent it anyway. But I thought you could do with some things you actually use. But just this once dear, I'm not his housekeeper.   
Mrs. Hudson. 

“Oh Mrs. Hudson, you’re a saint!” John grinned and eagerly opened her package. Razors. Tinned food. A first aid kit. Reading material. Toilet paper. Pen and writing stationary. Biscuits. Deodorant. Comb. Toothbrush and tooth paste. Tea and coffee sachets. Deck of playing cards. Fantastic. The siren was going for drill practice just now but when he had some free time he knew what he was going to do with it. He had two letters to write. 

Sherlock was not in such a hurry this time so he took the time to actually check the addresses on the envelopes when the mail came. He assured himself it was for practicality’s sake, not having to weed through irrelevant letters but it could be said that there was a modicum of truth to the idea that he did not want to put up with another of Mrs. Hudson’s lectures about common courtesy and neighborly behaviour. It was because of this modicum he took the time to knock on her door and hand her the letters rather than just ditching them on her doorstep. She accepted them gratefully and tried to tempt him in with a cup of tea but he declined. It was as she was turning away that he caught sight of that familiar brown envelope with it’s military postmark in her hand. Had he mistakenly given her John’s letter? No, he’d thoroughly checked them and John’s letter to him was here in his own hand. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was also corresponding with a soldier? Yes that must be it. Her soldier almost certainly wasn’t half as interesting as John. He smiled smugly to himself, ascending the stairs to read his letter.   
Mrs. Hudson closed the door and began to sift through her mail, pleasantly surprised at Sherlock’s uncharacteristic consideration. The pleasant surprises only continued when, among the bills and bank statements, she found a personal letter from that soldier friend of Sherlock’s, addressed to her. She poured herself a cuppa and sat down to read it. 

Dear Mrs. Hudson   
Your considerate and compassionate nature is a credit to you. If only there were more such people in the world. You do not know me and you have no connection to Sherlock (as far as I know) other than being his housekeeper. Our inconvenience would not put you out in the slightest and still you trouble over us both. Please know that I am very, very grateful for your parcel and the practicality of the items it contains. You have done the heart of an old soldier (not to mention his hygiene habits) a world of good. I will keep your package to me a secret, for Sherlock’s sake, and ask that you do the same with this reply. Just be our little secret eh?   
Many thanks   
John Watson 

What a sweet talker! “Our little secret” indeed. The thrill it gave her was foolish for a woman her age. This “old soldier” was probably only in his thirties and here was she, an old lady, blushing like a school girl over his letter! But she indulged it anyway. After all, who would know? It was John and her “little secret”.   
Up the stairs, Sherlock was reading his own letter. 

Dear Sherlock  
Thank you greatly for the package, I can tell you put a lot of thought into it. As far as I'm concerned you are doing a fantastic job in “fulfilling your role in this odd but genuine friendship”. A particular favorite was the tape of your violin playing. If the bottom ever falls out of the consulting detective business you can become a concert violinist. Did you compose the piece yourself? I've never heard it before (than again I'm hardly an aficionado of violin music. It may be a really popular piece and I'm coming of as a complete philistine not recognizing it. Ah, well that’s the risk you take when you’re friends with a genius eh?)   
I wish I could send you a package in reply but I don’t think you’d have any use for old socks and shell casings. (Pity, I have those aplenty). I can however send you a picture. A bunk mate of mine got one of those instant cameras from home a while back and just recently rustled up enough money to buy a roll of film. The sneaky bastard snapped one of me when I wasn’t looking (I usually hate being in photos). So I sneaked it out of his footlocker when he wasn’t looking. One sneak deserves another and after it is a photo of me so the way I see it, it belongs to me. I have enclosed it along with this letter. Hope you’re not too put off by my ugly mug to keep writing. 

John Watson.

Sherlock pulled out the photo and studied it with hungry eyes, cataloging every detail and its corresponding deduction. So this was what his first friend looked like. Sherlock felt oddly validated now that he had tangible proof that John was a real person and that he trusted him as a friend. He would not have sent him the photo otherwise. He said himself he hates being in photos. Sherlock couldn’t think why. There was no obvious disfigurement that would give him cause for shame. He appeared normal and perfectly formed, if a little weathered. Probably just a little insecurity that comes with being the older child in an unstable family, or part of the humility and quiet, almost shyness that made up such a large part of his personality. The other parts Sherlock had observed were steadfast loyalty, courage and old fashioned work ethic. Sherlock wondered if John would be considered attractive to someone who actually cared about those things. Maybe he’d ask Lestrade. He put that temporarily out of mind, set John’s photo aside with a mental note to get it framed and set to writing a reply. 

Dear John   
You are confusing me again. I wish you wouldn’t do that. Why do you term such a photograph as the one you sent me as portraying an “ugly mug?” I see nothing wrong with your “mug” and I am the most thorough observer you could ever hope to meet. In this photograph I see an Englishman who has the rare fortune among the Anglo race of being comfortable abroad as he is at home. I see a hard working soldier who has been outside often and cares not for his cap. I see a doctor who works long into the night, who forgets that he is frowning because he is so lost in his work. I see an eldest child who was more instrumental in raising his sibling than his parents will ever know, even though she poked you in the face with a pencil. I see a deep thinker, a humble man, a man sometimes turned so much on himself he forgets where he is, to shower, to eat, to do his laundry. I do not see ugliness. Modesty, while an admirable quality is dull. Don’t be dull John.   
Speaking, or rather writing, of what I see in photos you never told me your appraisal of the photograph I sent you. Go on, deduce what you may from it and I'll tell you if you’re correct. I look forward to seeing how an “amateur” approaches the art and science that is deductive observation.   
P.S. I received a rather odd text from my brother some time ago and it has just occurred to me it could because of something you told him. Can you explain to me why my brother is advising me to stop “poisoning small mammals”?   
Sherlock Holmes.


	9. Chapter 9

After he got over the initial wonder and awe at the depth and breadth (and accuracy) of Sherlock’s deductions, John realized he’d never actually looked at photograph Sherlock sent him, in all the kerfuffle and excitement of receiving two packages. Come to think of it, he could actually remember where it was. Damn, he hadn’t lost it had he? He opened his foot locker and began to rummage through it. Just as he was starting to get well and truly frustrated (how much crap was he keeping in here?) his bunkmate Mike entered.   
“Hey! What are you trashing the place for? I know we don’t get inspected that regularly anymore but that’s no reason to turn the tent upside down”  
“I'm looking for a photo.” John said curtly, pulling the covers of his cot back.   
“Ah. What of? A special someone? Pining after our sweetheart are we?”   
John didn’t reply, instead dropping to his knees and poking his head under the cot itself. There, face up on the floor, masquerading as a dust bunny, was the picture. He pulled it out, exclaiming in triumph. The triumph was short lived as Mike swooped down and plucked it from his hand.   
“Let’s cop a look at her then”  
“Mike! Give that back!” John didn’t like how juvenile he was sounding but Mike tended to have that effect on people. It was as if he had split personality disorder. Serious and morose in the operating theatre, a class clown with a flea in his shorts the rest of the time. Right now the class clown had a smile worthy of the Joker painted across his face.   
“You’re sweetheart’s a bloke John! Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“Shut up Stamford. He’s just a friend” John growled, seizing the photo back and inspecting it for stain or wrinkle.   
“Whatever mate. As long as you’re happy eh?” Mike flopped down on his own cot.   
John shook his head and turned his attention back to the photograph. Did Sherlock really expect him to be able to deduce anything from this photograph? Well, he could at least try.

Dear Sherlock   
You’re taking my breath away again Sherlock. From a glance over one photograph you seem to know more of me than people who live with me. And the funny thing is, I don’t mind it. If someone else were to judge my life like this I would feel violated, angry even. But with you it’s as if you have a right to know this stuff. As for modesty being dull, don’t rail on it too much. Modesty in others is one of those things that make this world just that little bit more bearable.   
Now the bit I've been putting off. My deductions. This is probably going to be rubbish but you asked so here goes.   
My deductions from your photograph   
You are young. Definitely not over 40 but not younger than 25. You have that fresh face look but no adolescent awkwardness or acne.   
This is your first time taking a “selfie” (yes people really do call them that). You hold the phone awkwardly in front of your face, taking a photo of your mirror reflection rather than your actual face and you do not pose ( I can’t tell if you’re smiling)   
(I feel really stupid doing this y’know)   
Uhhh… you like to dress well. You have a decent income coming in from somewhere. Does someone support you or are you paid by Scotland Yard for your detective work? Is asking questions cheating? Ah I don’t know. I give up.  
It’s so unfair that you know so much about me just by looking and I've got to struggle like a mere mortal just to catch up. I don’t begrudge you your gift Sherlock just a bit jealous.   
Anyway, pitiful deductions aside, Sherlock I do believe I can shed some light on your brother’s odd text message. I fed him a lie about you (that you are testing the effects of alkaloids on hamsters) and he took the bait. He owes me money. Do write to me if he sends you anymore odd texts or makes further suspiciously smug statements.   
Enough of your brother eh? Let’s change the subject. Things this end have been going well considering. We had a man with injuries from a road accident come in and I reset the break in his leg. I was afraid infection would set in but thank good ness it hasn’t. I know that doesn’t sound particularly riveting but here infection in a wound can be fatal or at least have cost him the leg to gangrene or such like which is just as bad because he wouldn’t have been able to work and feed his family. I saved a family yesterday Sherlock, just by re-setting a bone properly. Yes I do feel quite proud of myself at this particular moment. How about you? Had any triumphs or small victories lately?   
John Watson. '

Dear Anon  
Ha-ha, WRONG! Sorry to be blunt but you know how we spies are. You owe me. Please do me the favor of converting it into Afghanis or at least military script if you can. US dollars are accepted here but pounds, not so much.   
Here’s your next one.   
Recently Sherlock has learnt  
A. what a “selfie” is  
B. the history of the Afghanistan conflict  
C. the exact formula for gelignite   
Go on. Give it another try. ]

For once Sherlock was not in when the mail arrived. He was marching into Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade’s office, a mission in mind. He swept in without knocking (as usual) and tapped on Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade, who was sitting on his desk poring over a potential terrorist threat’s rap sheet, looked up.   
“Sherlock?! What are you doing here? There’s no case on is there?”  
Sherlock, ignoring his questions, pulled a photo from his pocket and handed it to him. “Do you find this man attractive?”   
“What!?!? Sherlock, what is this? Is this a joke?”  
Sherlock frowned “No, it’s not a joke. It’s a photograph accompanied by a simple subjective question. In your opinion, is this man attractive?”  
Lestrade squirmed. Why did these things have to happen to him? “Sherlock I'm really not the person you should be asking.”  
“Who should I be asking?”  
“A woman? A gay man? Someone who finds men attractive”  
Sherlock sighed “I'm not asking if you want to shag him Lestrade…”  
Greg visibly relaxed.  
“… I simply wish to know if in your opinion, the man depicted in this photograph possesses a degree of physical beauty or attractiveness. Please answer the question”  
“Yes. Now can I get back to work?”  
“You didn’t even look at the photograph”  
Lestrade put his hand to his forehead and tried desperately not to scream. “Sherlock, I'm very busy…”  
“It will only take a moment. Please, Lestrade”  
Greg looked up at that. Sherlock had never, ever said please to him before. Knowing that (for some reason) this was important to him and that he wasn’t going to let it go, he brought the photo up to his face and looked at it intently.  
“Yes, Sherlock he is. I'm very happy for you” Lestrade said, handing the picture over.  
Sherlock took it and was just about to open his mouth in reply when someone swept in and wrenched it out of his hand.   
“What you looking at eh?” Sally studied the photograph. “He’s quite nice. Friend of yours Lestrade?”  
“No he is not Lestrade’s friend. He is my friend” Sherlock informed her. If looks could kill…   
“Your friend?”  
“Yes. He is a soldier with whom I have been corresponding” Sherlock took the photo back and spent a moment smoothing out the creases and mumbling under his breath.   
“Oh, is he that “dear John” fellow you told me about?” Lestrade tailed off as he became aware of Sherlock’s glare. But it was too late. Sally had heard. She grinned in a way that can only be described as evil. “Oh yeah. My sister’s in his regiment and told me he was writing you. I wrote him a letter, telling him all about you. I warned him off you, telling him you were a psycho”  
“Sally!”  
“No Lestrade, it’s really quite alright. I was aware of Sally’s correspondence with John. He wrote to me and told me of it. I informed him of her irrational bitterness towards me. He understood perfectly.”  
Now it was Sally with the lethal look. But Sherlock did not care in the slightest, protectively pocketing the photo. Sally huffed in annoyance, turned on her heel and left.   
Sherlock didn’t see the letter on the floor at first and stepped on it. Once he realized it, he leapt of it and swept it up like a hurt child. He felt an irrational pang of guilt that he quickly dismissed. He ran a letter opener through the seal, flopped down on the couch and started to read. John’s deductions were alright considering but nothing overwhelming. Sherlock was indeed under 40 and it was his first time taking a self portrait photograph. (he refused to go on calling them by their infantile moniker the general populace used) he was a little miffed at being told off for dismissing modesty but decided he could accept it from John (and John alone).   
He had a genuine little chuckle to himself when John explained his brother’s text. Poor Mycroft. It did put him out so to be wrong. Especially about Sherlock, a subject he was supposed to be an expert on.   
It was riveting to read about John’s operation on the traffic accident patient but probably not for the reason John was hoping. While Sherlock did feel happy for John’s success, he was wondering through out the whole description that there would be some detail on infections that come about as a result of broken bones. Maybe he could get John to send him a few photographs. Battle wounds were not often seen in the mean streets of London and were therefore unexplored territory. 

Dear John  
I don’t know if it is a quirk of genetics, greatness of tolerance in your personality, kindness of disposition or your past experiences that make you the one unique individual who does not take offence at having his life laid before him by another. I cannot fathom why you feel I have a right to know so much of you, save that I have earned it through honing my skills of deduction. But I hesitate to question it should I, as you say, “break the spell” of this relationship.   
I am glad to hear, or rather read, that you are doing well. I was in fact riveted by your description of the road accident patient. I wonder if you could send me some photographs or at least thorough descriptions of some infections, battle wounds etc. Given that London is not a war zone, I never get to see such injuries and would be interested to examine them from a pathological point of view.   
It occurs to me that we are not taking full advantage of the technology of correspondence we have at our disposal in this day and age. I wonder if you have, or at least have access to a Skype enabled computer. I do and will be on from 9:00 onwards, which would be around 12:30 where you are. If you can please do get in contact.   
Sherlock 

Postscript: by the way, you were almost completely correct in your deductions. I am 29. That was my first photographic self portrait (here’s hoping also my last) and I do have a steady income. It is from Mycroft however (how I do loathe admitting that. Take as much of his money as you can) not Scotland Yard. They cannot pay me I am not officially on the force. It is only thanks to an understanding with Lestrade that I am even allowed to work on police matters.


	10. Skype Meet up

John smiled as he read the part of the letter requesting a Skype meet up. As a matter of fact they did have a Skype capable computer on base, to contact experts at home officially. But most of the time it was just used by homesick soldiers while those in charge pretended not to notice the flagrant misuse of army resources. They had to, they did it too. John looked at his watch. Crap! It was 12:25! What if he’d missed it already? After hurriedly stowing the letter away in his footlocker he hot-footed it over to the base office.   
He skidded to a halt when he saw the computer dock was currently occupied. Lieutenant Scott was being sickeningly in love with his pregnant wife, even blowing kisses. Who was this man and where was the guy who scared new recruits witless?   
“I love you!”  
“Oh I love you more!”  
“No way! Okay babe, I gotta go. Hang up.”  
“You hang up first”  
Lieutenant Scott giggled. Giggled? “No come on, you hang up!”  
Was this really happening?!? John was sure this kind of thing only happened in soppy romance movies. He tapped his foot. 12:27  
“I miss you so much”  
“I'll bet I miss you more”  
John strangled the scream of frustration. “Lieutenant, I kind of need to make a call”   
“Yeah, yeah Watson. I can’t wait to see you darling. Now you really have to hang up.”  
“Oh no, you hang up”  
John couldn’t take it anymore. He reached over and terminated the call.   
“Watson!”  
“Hey, she told you to hang up!” John smiled, pulling the other man out of the seat. “I'll make it up to you sometime.”  
“Yeah you better.” Lieutenant Scott stormed off, looking thunderous. Now there was the man they all knew and feared.   
John quickly put the cursor in the search bar and typed in Sherlock’s name. One option appeared. Of course there was only one Sherlock Holmes in the world. He clicked in it.   
“C’mon Sherlock. Answer.”   
Sherlock was pulling out the optic nerve of a severed eye ball when the call came through. He literally threw it aside, tore off his goggles, vaulted the coffee table and barreled into the computer chair. He took a calming breath, ran a hand through his hair and clicked to receive the call. John’s face appeared on his screen. His friend. Living and breathing. An actual person. This was one of, if not the most, exhilarating moment in Sherlock’s life.   
“Hello Sherlock? Can you hear me? I can see you, can you see me?”  
“Yes, John, I can hear and see you fine.”   
“wow! It’s actually you!”  
“My sentiments exactly”  
John had always known how video calling worked but this was his first experience of it. It was quite something. If not for the pixilation it could have been a face to face conversation.   
“I wish I had some witty opening but all I can say is “how’s it going?” bit of a let down huh?”  
“Not all John. I am doing quite well.”  
“Is that… blood on your face?” John’s voice was tinged with concern as he squinted at the screen.   
Sherlock touched his cheek and his fingers did indeed come away stained in red. “Ah. Just back spray from a dissection experiment. Nothing to worry about.”  
John’s face appeared to be unable to decide on an emotion. It flitted between bemusement, amusement and concern. Finally it settled on amusement. “Of course it is. I can just imagine you in your flat, hacking some dead thing to pieces”  
Sherlock was surprised with the ease that this conversation was progressing. “Most people find dissection a distasteful subject”  
“I'm not most people. As long as it’s not vivisection, its fine with me.”   
“Speaking of you not being most people, I showed Lestrade your photograph and he agreed with my conclusion”  
“What conclusion?”  
“That you are not ugly as you asserted”  
“Lestrade said that?”  
“After I insisted upon his appraisal of the photograph you sent me”  
John put his head in his hands (mostly to hide his stupid grin). Sherlock really was a law unto himself.   
“You can’t just go around demanding people’s appraisal of me Sherlock”  
“I don’t see why not. It only inconvenienced Lestrade for a short time and assisted in my making a point”  
“alright, I concede. I'm attractive alright? Can we just drop it now? God, that poor man. I only wish I could say sorry”  
“I'll get him on the phone”  
“No Sherlock….” Too late. Sherlock had scuttled off to find his phone. He hurried back with it already to his ear.   
“Lestrade I've got John on Skype from Afghanistan. He wants to talk to you.” Sherlock pressed the phone to the speaker on the computer  
Poor, poor Lestrade. He’d only just picked up the phone and now he was thrust into a conversation with a stranger.   
“Hi Lestrade. It’s John, Sherlock’s friend from Afghanistan.”  
“Umm Okay. Hello. What did you want to talk to me for?”  
“I just wanted to apologize on Sherlock’s behalf for him making you judge my photograph. I can imagine that would have been very awkward.”   
Lestrade’s chuckle was tinny and faint “Yeah it was a bit. But you didn’t have to apologize. I know what Sherlock’s like…”  
“Yeah he’s a force.” John laughed. “I wasn’t even going to ring you but he already had so I thought what the hell”  
“It’s a lot easier to just go with isn’t it?”  
“It is indeed.”  
“Well, thanks for this phone call out of the blue. It’s good to know Sherlock has someone like you to keep him grounded. But if you don’t mind I'm kind of busy…”  
“Oh no, sure. You get on with it. Sorry to take up your time”  
Sherlock hung up the phone and set it aside. “You needn’t be so apologetic you know. He really didn’t mind”  
“He probably did but was too polite to say.”  
“I'll never understand politeness.”  
“That’s alright. I'll never understand Kurdish. That’s what interpreters are for.”  
Sherlock smiled “John Watson, politeness interpreter to the sociopath in need.”  
“You aren’t a sociopath Sherlock”  
Sherlock’s brows knit. “Yes I am”  
“No you aren’t. I did some psychology training as part of my time in med-school. You aren’t a sociopath. If you were you would be psychologically incapable of making friends. I'm your friend and I'm not going away anytime soon.”  
This line of conversation was beginning to prick too deep at Sherlock’s sensitivities and insecurities so he changed it.   
“How is your road accident patient doing?”   
John noticed the abrupt subject change but was wise enough not to push it. “He’s doing well. Bones starting to knit together again”  
“Callus forming?”  
John smiled “Yes Doctor Holmes it is indeed. Beginning to show up on x rays and all those good things.”  
“Could I get a copy of those x-rays?”  
John’s face did its little indecisive dance again. “I suppose I could make some copies. What on earth do you want them for?”   
“Research, building up my knowledge so I can make deeper observations and deductions”  
“I do admire a man with passion for his work. I'll see what I can do.”   
“Coo-ee! Sherlock, your washing’s finished!” Mrs. Hudson bustled in, bearing a basket full of folded laundry. “Oh! What you up to? Watching videos on the YouTube?”  
Sherlock gritted his teeth and turned to address her “No I am not watching “the YouTube”. I am on a video call with my friend John who I have been sending letters to.”  
“So this is that soldier friend you had me send the parcel to! Hello John”  
“Hello Mrs.….” John was doing a very good job keeping their secret. As was Mrs. H. Sherlock didn’t suspect a thing (even Sherlock Holmes does not see what he is not looking for).   
“Hudson. Claire Hudson.”  
“How do?”  
Mrs. Hudson smiled and even giggled a little.   
Sherlock huffed in irritation “I am in the middle of something here”  
“Sherlock don’t be rude”  
“Oh don’t worry about I love. I'm used to his abrasive nature by now.” She went back to her basket and started putting the clothes away and generally pottering around. This irritated Sherlock no end but apparently John found it unacceptable to berate her so he held his tongue. He could always do it later when he wasn’t looking.   
“I was wondering the other day, Sherlock, what does someone in you’re line of work think of crime shows. Watched any good episodes of CSI lately?”  
Sherlock scoffed “CSI, please. It takes them far too long to reach a conclusion I could have reached within the day”  
“Your last case took 2 weeks to figure out dear” Mrs. Hudson pointed out as she wiped down the mantle piece.   
“Yes thank you Hudders!” Sherlock curled his lip and tried not to notice John’s grin of amusement. He turned away to fix her with a look John wouldn’t see but saw her picking up his skull to dust underneath. “No don’t touch that it’s…”  
A packet of cigarettes fell out and onto the floor. Mrs. Hudson picked them up and fixed Sherlock with a look much the same as the one he’d intended for her.   
“Sherlock! You promised me you’d given these up.”  
“I have! Those are my emergency ones”  
“You and I have a very different definitions of “cold turkey””   
“Yes, yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson that will be all” he took the cigarettes from her and shepherded her out of the room.   
“Good bye Mrs. Hudson!” John called from the computer. “Sherlock you really don’t deserve that sweet woman”  
“You wouldn’t call it sweet if one of her infernal “coo-ees” broke your train of thought. For the 3rd time. Especially when you were on the cusp of unraveling one of the most fascinating cases that had ever occurred”   
“To be fair, no I probably wouldn’t. But I'd be more patient with her than you are”  
“Probably. But then politeness to the point of tolerance of the incredibly irritating is a cross you have been burdened with at a young age. Anyway, why the sudden affection towards my housekeeper?”  
“She’s not your housekeeper” John said before he could stop himself. Sherlock eyed him curiously.   
“It’s not affection. She just seems like a very nice lady”   
“Yes, many people have come to that conclusion through the years. Of course they don’t have the data to work with that I do”  
“What data?”  
“Do the words “drug cartel” and “exotic dancer” mean anything to you?”  
“What? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. All I know is she lets you live in her flat at a reduced rate, cleans, cooks, and puts up with your idiosyncrasies. As far as I can see the woman is a saint.”   
Sherlock huffed but said no more. He didn’t want to argue with John. Not on their first face to face encounter.   
They talked for a little while longer before someone else required the base computer and John had to sign off.   
Sherlock was rather ashamed/ thrilled that afterwards he couldn’t stop grinning for a full hour and even after that the smile returned as snippets came to mind. John really did have a most fascinating and curious effect on him. It was odd. And obviously required further investigation.


	11. Fixing the Broken

Sherlock was just about to resume his experimentation when his phone dinged. He picked it up, unlocked it and looked at the text. It was from Mycroft. 2 in one month. What had he done to deserve such an honor? It read “if you blow anything up experimenting with that recipe, I'm telling Mummy.”  
Sherlock grinned. Another of John’s letters he presumed. “Not even close” he said aloud. His actual reply was “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about”. Let him decide if that was sarcasm or not. He noted it down to send to John in his next letter.  
When John returned to his tent, a packet was waiting for him on his desk. It looked like it could be his pay but it was much too fat to be an army wage. When he opened it he discovered it wasn’t in army script either. It was Afghani money. And a lot of it. When he counted it all up he figured he must have like a 1,000 £ worth. He rechecked the envelope and found a note.  
“Enclosed find 95,942.40 AFN, currently on the exchange rate worth 1,000 pounds. You win this time Dr. Watson”  
Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any better. After checking he was not wanted in the med bay or post op he headed out into the markets. He had quite some money to spend. Thanks to the generosity of Mrs. Hudson he did not want for necessities, he was on the look out for luxuries. Perhaps a gift for Sherlock. But what did a genius who lived an ascetic life with unlimited means want for? Cologne? Dates? Turkish delight? At the silk stall he happened upon it. A man’s silk shirt, purple with black buttons. The perfect thing for a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, whose taste showed indulgence in the extravagant. John didn’t know for sure what Sherlock’s size was but by his estimate it would be pretty alright. He bought it. Even then he still had quite a bit left over. A large portion of his wages already went into a savings account. Should this be saved as well. He was mulling this over when he walked into the solution. Literally, he walked face first into a sign and fell backwards. A chorus of shouting, laughing and squealing voices surrounded him and he looked up to find himself ringed by Afghani children, all staring down at the funny foreigner. A woman emerged from one of the houses that lined the street and called out to them in Kurdish. They hurried over to her and together they all came out to meet him.  
“Are you alright?” she asked him in clipped English as he picked himself up.  
“Oh yes. I'm fine. Sorry about your sign”  
“Is ok. Looks like it came off better than you did” the woman smiled.  
He smiled back. “Who are all these children? Are they yours?”  
The woman’s grin got wider “In a way yes. This is a Red Crescent children’s home” she pointed at the sign that did indeed display a red crescent.  
“Oh, of course! Say….” If he had been a cartoon character the light bulb would be appearing over his head right about now “Could you do with some money?”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sherlock was ignoring the knock at the door. And the knocker. And the ring of the door bell. He had better things to do, like dispose of a mutilated eye ball and write up his experiment results. He figured that if he just ignored them, they’d think he was out and leave. He figured without Mrs. Hudson.  
“Sherlock there’s someone here to see you!”  
“I'm not seeing visitors today Mrs. Hudson. Whoever it is, tell them to go away!”  
“Even if it’s your mother?”  
“My what?” Sherlock looked up to see his mother standing next to Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. Damn.  
“Hello sweetheart!” Mrs. Holmes strode in the doorway, not waiting for the invitation she knew she would not receive, and sat down. Mrs. Hudson quietly closed the door and made herself scarce.  
“Mother, what are you doing here?”  
“That’s a nice way to say hello isn’t it? You never come to see me so I thought I may as well come and see you”  
“I'm in the middle of something. I need to get these results down before I forget them”  
“Now Sherly, don’t try that with me. I'm your mother. I know better than anyone that you never forget something you want to remember. Those results will keep.”  
Sherlock sighed. She knew him too well. “Would you like a cup of tea or whatever the protocol is?”  
“Tea would be lovely dear”  
“Why don’t you go and bother Mycroft?”  
“I've just come from there. He was called into an important meeting”  
“Of course he was.” How like Mycroft to pass the buck like that. Sherlock put the kettle on and poured her and himself a cuppa.  
“So love, what’s been happening with you? You been taking care of yourself?”  
“I imagine you already know the answer to that question. You do know that Mycroft has my flat bugged”  
“Oh Sherlock don’t be so churlish. Of course he doesn’t.”  
Sherlock would have shown her the bugs he’d found but she was using her “let’s have no more of that talk” tone of voice so he didn’t push it.  
“He did tell me you’ve been corresponding with a soldier though”  
Sherlock smiled. His mother noticed. “Tell me about it Sherlock. Is it for one of your cases?”  
“No, he’s a friend.”  
“A friend?”  
A strange childish thrill went through Sherlock and before he could help himself he was gushing. “Yes, a friend. His name is John and he’s an army doctor. We met through a letter writing campaign to raise troop morale.”  
“How long have you been writing?”  
“Since January.”  
“Well it sounds serious.”  
“It is. He said so, he called it an “odd but genuine” friendship.” Sherlock was a grown man but right now he was just a proud little boy who wanted to tell his mum all about his favorite friend. “He just gets it Mum. He doesn’t call me weird or get offended. He’s really genuine and sincere. I feel like I could talk and talk forever with him and never run out of things to say. And he thinks I'm brilliant”  
Mrs. Holmes was thrilled to pieces, not least of all because he’d called her “mum” not mother. She remembered all too well the Sherlock of old, the distant little boy who was bullied by his classmates and misunderstood by his teachers. The boy who wrote to Santa Claus when he was eight asking for a friend. The boy whose birthdays were spent in the company of his brother’s or father’s friends but never his own. It was that boy she saw before her now, finally happy, finally connecting with someone. Bless this soldier, whoever he is.  
But still she worried.  
“Just be careful Sherlock. Long distance relationships, even platonic ones are hard to keep up”  
Sherlock shook his head, rejecting that outright. “That’s because people go about them the wrong way. John and I started our friendship long distance. We know how to do this. We just had a Skype conversation.”  
“I'm happy for you Sherlock.” Seeing him avert his eyes she continued “no, I really am. I know you think of me as this occasional annoyance that sometimes drops into your life but I really do care about you and how happy you are. You understand that, don’t you?”  
“Of course I do Mother.”  
Back to the “mother”. The tender moment was over. Sherlock was withdrawing again. Still that short moment of connection was enough for her. She finished her tea, kissed him on the cheek even though she knew he hated it and left.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “John, there a message left for you on the Skype account”  
“Oh yeah? What did it say?”  
“I wrote it down. Here, got to go, my tent’s being inspected”  
John took the note, unfolding it and squinting at the quickly done scrawl “Dear John. Received another text from Mycroft. Reads “if you blow up anything experimenting with that recipe I'm telling Mummy”. Another one of your lies? – From Sherlock.”  
John grinned, stuffing the note in his pocket. Looks like the children at the Red Crescent home would be getting yet another generous donation from the British government. He packaged up Sherlock’s gift for the express post and turned in for the night. He went to his bunk that night happy. He would almost go so far as to say at peace. Such was his way that while he could be friendly with many he gave himself away to only a select few. He had gone for a very long time without having a genuinely warm and friendly exchange that went further than surface level stuff and it was highly satisfying.  
And yet, he could not sleep. His body was in a state of hyper arousal, of alertness that could not be switched off. As if he might have to react at any moment. There was no rhyme or reason as to why he should be this way. They were not a base that was near any action and all was quiet according to their scouts. And yet, he could not sleep.  
When he was younger his mother used to describe him as “intuitive”. Harry was the thinker and John was the feeler.  
“Oh Mum, if you could see us now” Harry the thinker, slowly embalming her brain and pickling her insides and John the feeler, miles away from home whose most meaningful relationship was with pen and paper, a man on a screen. Maybe it was intuition that kept him awake. It was true that the air seemed to have a foreboding tinge to it, like an undercurrent of green in a serene blue river. He took up pen and paper, meaning to write to Sherlock. But the words would not come. This was not something one described. It is something you can understand only through experience. He lay back, staring at his canvas ceiling, listening to his bunkmate snore and snuffle. Wondering and dreading what tomorrow would bring into his life. 

(AN: the fluff takes a temporary break here people. Warning: description of warzone wounds, death and heavy use of medical jargon)

When John woke the next morning everything seemed normal. The sun streamed through his mesh window, casting the same dipple-dapple pattern across his blanket that it always did. His bunkmate was still out cold. John grabbed his towel and some of the soap Mrs. Hudson had sent and hit the showers. That done, he took a stroll around the camp. The air seemed to be clearer at this time and he had quiet to think. Despite the cheerful morning and the calm surroundings the feeling of last night was still with him. Sleep had not dimmed it, in fact it had only magnified it. He took out his sidearm and felt the weight of it in his hand, checking the cartridges and the safety, slipping it back into his holster. Why did he feel like this?  
The call came in half an hour after breakfast. People running in and out of the base, grabbing supplies.  
“What’s going on?” John asked the nearest recruit  
“Dust off”  
“what?”  
“Oh sorry I forget you Brits don’t call em that. I just transferred in from a US unit. It’s a CASEVAC. Airstrike on a girls’ school just outside Kandahar, from what I heard”  
the CO emerged from the base, calling John’s name and waving him over. He hurried to her side.  
“John this sounds like it’s going to be a big job. Lot’s of casualties of varying degrees of severity. They need another evac medic”  
“Say no more Sir. I'll grab my pack”  
“John” John turned back to look at her. “You better suit up as well”  
He nodded grimly and ran off to his tent. Now John was by no means a coward but it would definitely be fair to say he was uneasy about this mission. Scouts assured them there were no Taliban fighters still at the school and they had never been wrong before. But there was a first time for everything… John pushed the feeling aside and suited up. Still he checked his gun was full before heading out.  
John clung to the sides of the choppers as it lurched into life, blades beating the air into a deafening roar.  
Even from the air the school was a disaster zone. Craters, shrapnel, chunks of masonry blown to pieces. The chopper landed and the team hopped out.  
Fire. Thick smoke. The smell of burnt hair and clothes (and skin). Sweltering heat. Girls crying out in Farsi and Kurdish, the words garbled but terror is a universal language. And through it all, triage was taking place. The team were getting to work.  
“Litter over here! This one’s urgent!”  
“I need some intubation over here I got an open pneumo-thorax!”  
“Monitor for a tension pneumothorax! Have you sealed the chest?”  
“Shit, I'm losing circulation, loosen the knot on that pressure bandage!”  
It was amazing how quickly it all happened. In one fluid movement, John had the gun from his holster and in his hand, the safety off and had fired it before he even registered what had happened. It was like watching a TV show of someone being shot. The sound seemed to be magnified tenfold, booming around the cracked stone walls. John had struck true. The bullet went straight through the man’s heart. 

Blood spatter

The whites of his eyes, rolling in his head. 

Strangled gasp

Horror 

Limp body falling to the bloodied floor.

Screaming. The girl. Good she’s alive. 

Chaos 

Ice water in his veins, his heart seizing.

Fear, trauma. 

Brain shutting down auto pilot kicking in. 

Holster the gun, pick up the girl, head towards the exit. What happens next is not clear enough for re-collection. Somehow he gets out, gets his girl into an ambulance and himself into a chopper. His body is moving while his mind is drowning, drowning in whys and what ifs. Why didn’t he think? Why didn’t he just disable him, shoot the air as a warning? Why was his first instinct to kill? What if he had tried reasoning with the man? Can you do that? Why was it so easy?  
Tired. He’s so, so tired. Which is why, even though he’s still in full gear, covered in grit, grime and blood, he sinks into his bunk and into the gray haze of not-quite-sleep. 

John crossed out yet another line, screwing up the paper and hurling it at the bin in frustration. He must have started this letter a dozen times, if only in his head. He knew it was important to talk about things that are bothering you and he did want to share this with Sherlock but… how? This was not something you just dumped on someone. Sherlock deserved more delicacy than that. In the back of his head John was also worried about Sherlock being able to deal with this. Sherlock was like he used to be, only experiencing death as the aftermath, the effects and not the event. From this angle death is numbing to some, fascinating to others. Death present tense is a totally different affair. One John wished he’d never been party to. He had all the theoretical justification in the world. He did it in self defense and in defense of his patient as he was required to do. He was in a warzone where killing is not only part of life, it’s literally in the job description. So why this nameless feeling in his gut? Maybe Sherlock would know. If only he could find a way to tell him. 

Instead of an envelope, it was a packet that fell to the floor of the entrance way to 221 Baker St. Sherlock heard the letterbox snap and hurried down the stairs to get it. He initially thought the packet was for Mrs. Hudson but there was his name and address on the label. Mystified, he took it up stairs, ran it through with a letter opener and fished out the contents. An old style cassette tape marked on one side “please listen to asap” and “I'm so sorry” on the other. He recognized John’s handwriting but could not fathom why he would send him such a thing, or label it in such a fashion. There was only one way to unravel this conundrum. Listen to the tape. He rustled around in his closet until he found his old stereo that had a cassette compartment, plugged it in and listened as keenly as he could.  
A rustling clatter. Undoubtedly John moving the cassette recorder around after turning it on. Then, his voice.  
“Hey Sherlock. Sorry this message has been so long in coming but I have I couldn’t write this down. I had to find some other way of doing it. I know this is an unusual method of correspondence but it was the only compromise I could come to, a place for me to rant and babble while also giving you the space to absorb and process that you don’t get with face to face interaction. I have literally agonized over sending you this message. Ugh, agonized. That sounds… pathetic but…  
John took a breath as he pronounced the next word  
… pathetic but there’s no other way to put it. I guess I should just come out and say it.  
Pause  
3 days ago I was chosen to be an evac medic for a casualty evacuation at a bombed out girls school. At first, it was like all the other evacs I've been to. Loud, dusty, it was hot from still burning fires, wounded every where, horrific wounds.  
Pause in which John breathes tersely seemingly steeling himself  
But this was different this time. the scouts had said that they had cleared the area that there was no enemy units. This time they were wrong.  
It was just as we were clearing out, as I was pulling the last girl from the last classroom… when it happened. this enemy soldier, this “talib” as they call them here, just jumped out of nowhere.  
The pace of the words increases  
He was screaming, something I didn’t understand, I can’t remember anything except that he was screaming. And I remember, seeing a gun. I didn’t see the man’s face but I saw the gun. And I, before I'd even had time to think, I'd shot him. Through the heart.  
I turned, his body, his heart to mincemeat. Saw his eyes roll back in his head. At the time there was so many things I couldn’t pick one out, one feeling out of the gray haze in my mind. There was fear definitely. My own heart was beating at a million miles an hour. When I heard that bang just reverberate around the room it felt like it was me that had been shot.  
My stomach curdling, his dead, dead body slumped to the floor and the girl, the girl was screaming. I couldn’t think, I had to switch my brain off just to get her out of there. I couldn’t, I didn’t have time to process, I couldn’t do it there. Wasn’t time. Somehow we got out, got her into the ambulance, got her to hospital and came back to base.  
John takes a shaky breath and the pace slows  
When I got back, the only thing I felt was.. tired. I had taken a man’s life and all I felt was tired. Wanted to sleep. But I couldn’t close my eyes and lie still knowing that he would never do anything but lie still ever again. I couldn’t bear to feel like him, to be like him.  
Lately, feelings have started to filter back through the haze. And I feel horror for what I've done, knowing that I am capable, mercilessly capable of taking a man’s life without even thinking about it. Horror that that was my first response, my default setting. This is what I have become. A flashpoint killer. My reflex action was to kill and I feel horror at that. Then I remember the girl and I remember what that man was there for, he was there to take my life and that girls life and as many lives as he could. By taking him down I saved my life and her life. …. And I feel proud.  
Then I think, maybe that guy had a family and I feel ashamed of my pride. Then in the back of my brain I remember, remember why I'm here. I remember that killing not’ just a hazard of the job it is literally in my job description, it is why I am here. And I am ashamed at being ashamed at my pride and that is where it gets too much. When you start having feelings about your feelings about your feelings I just… I can’t process it anymore. I'm a practical man Sherlock. I'm a man of the here and now and these vague concepts are things I cannot put a name to, things I cannot label things I cannot explain. They are too much for me. And so… I give you this message.  
I don’t even know what I'm expecting you to do with this. It is probably massively presumptuous of me to expect you to be able to answer the questions I myself, the one who is living with them cannot answer. The risks we take when we make friends.  
You don’t need to fix me Sherlock. I'm a lost man reaching out; all I'm looking for is another man brave enough to admit he’s lost too. We don’t have to complete each other; we can just be broken together. Don’t try for answers Sherlock. Just be a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen, maybe even arms to hold. That’s all I need. An anchor.  
I'm so sorry to do this to you. I don’t know what you’re going through listening to this.  
Another rustling thud and the sound cuts out.  
Sherlock sat in his chair, his fingers stepped, his eye closed. Not moving. To the casual on looker he would’ve appeared almost like a museum mannequin, cleverly set up to look life like but empty inside. They would be wrong. Sherlock was anything but empty inside. His mind was whirling like the beginnings of a hurricane, the brooding clouds before a storm. Fragments spun in his head.  
Flashpoint killer  
Lost man reaching out  
Tired, ashamed  
Doctor  
Soldier  
Flashpoint killer.  
John Watson. Hero. Saved a girl’s life.  
Flashpoint killer?  
No.  
His eyes opened. There was the practical semantics of the theory sorted out. Now for the messy unpleasant bits. The feelings. He took up his pen and steeled himself. He was not good at this but for John he would do his best. 

Dear John  
I am not good at this. For me feelings have always been hindrances to be put aside so the problem at hand can be dealt with. This time the problem is the feelings themselves. You are looking for someone to be broken with you and to be honest I fear I may be too broken to reach back. Please know that I have listened intently to your tape and I mean to help you to the best of my abilities.  
First of all I must tell you the conclusion I have reached from the data you have provided. I am not the most objective person to decide this owing to my friendship with you but perhaps this makes me only more qualified to attempt insight into your character. But I digress. The conclusion I have come to is, no you are not a “flashpoint killer”. You are a soldier, trained in armed combat who saw a threat to himself and an unarmed civilian and took action accordingly. When one goes to war they sign a contract, whether figuratively or literally, that it is “kill or be killed”. You went into that country to try to root out and remove the threat to the Afghani people that is the Taliban insurgence. On that fateful day you did that job. And I applaud you Lieutenant Watson.  
At the same time I understand all the rational truth in the world may have no affect on feelings, part of the reason I hate them so. The only advice I can give in re these emotions is to allow them to run their course. Temporarily put aside your practicalities, even just for a short time a day. Soon enough the ones you aren’t meant to have will fade. I do not believe I could tolerate such a practice but then I also believe you are made of sterner, hardier stuff than I John.  
Here’s hoping this is helpful  
Sherlock Holmes.


	12. Chapter 12

Fair warning Sherlock, this letter isn’t going to be a pleasant one. No joking or fun. I have a story I want to tell you. A story I'm right in the middle of. By rights I should be in there now, working out it’s conclusion but my CO says I'm too tired and I've been sent to my bunk. I'm supposed to be sleeping but I can’t sleep with this on my chest. So it looks like you’re my off load point. Sorry about that but some times life aint fair.   
A little girl and her baby brother came into our surgery today, in one of our ambulances. Blood gushing down her face. But behind it, in between the streams of crimson one little eye staring out. An eye filled with fear, confusion and just screaming why. Why me? Why does it hurt so much? Why me? I swear I will never, ever forget that look in that one little eye, behind its bloody veil. I will see it in my nightmares tonight. Maybe for the rest of my life.  
She was just a scrap of a thing, her brother even more so. She’d been hurt playing with an unexploded explosive. She’d found a bomb on the street and was playing with it. Why?!? Why was there a bomb on the bloody fucking street?!!!? Because we fucking put it there that’s why. To blow up the Taliban. But instead we blew up this little girl and her baby brother. They were brought in after their mother’s hysterical screaming attracted the attention of my patrol who called in an ambulance.   
She’s lying in there now, lying on the operating table while the same people who blew her up fight to stop the bleeding, fight to stop infection, fight to save her sight and her life. Her little brother is already dead. He died on route to the hospital, his mother’s cries getting louder as his got weaker and weaker before fading away. We did all we could, tried to stop the blood, tried to stop his insides spilling out until we got to the hospital, but he was too far gone. She might die too. Our equipment, our skill, our text book knowledge is not enough. This girl might make it. She might not. That’s the truth of it. No miracles, no fucking “saints in surgical garb” like you read about in the papers. As patriotic as we’d all like to feel about the great favor we are bestowing on the Afghani people the reality is that the tools of war have more power to take life than we have to save it.   
I'm so sad and so angry at everyone and everything but that poor little girl. I hate this war. I hate myself and how impotent we doctors really are when it all comes down to it. I feel so useless, like a waste of space, here with this huge death machine that is our army. Now I wish I really was above it all. No, no I don’t mean that. I wish it but I do not mean it. Fuck, I don’t know what I mean anymore.   
Sorry to write such a depressing note Sherlock but I am not in the mood for platitudes or empty cheer. I do not enjoy grief but I want to feel it. Because these people, the tragedies that are happening here, they deserve to be grieved over. 

AN: I know. We were all having such a good time until I had to go and ruin it. Sorry folks. That’s the reality of life in a warzone. This chapter is not a political statement about the “rightness” or “wrongness” of the army’s presence in Afghanistan. This is not for the sake of drama or spicing up the story. This is my honest attempt at bringing the reality of war life home to you all. This little girl (I don’t know her name) in the picture is what inspired this chapter, along with the stories on http://www.icrc.org/eng/resources/documents/photo-gallery/2014/04-04-world-health-day-2104-afghanistan-mirwais.htm. The story in this chapter is not one person’s story in particular. It is an amalgamation of this little girl’s story (she was actually burned by kerosene, an accident which did kill her brother) and others. Nevertheless it is a true story. Children really do get blown up playing with unexploded war material. It can make us feel sad and that’s good. It can make us feel angry and that’s good too. Or it can make us try to change it and that’s the best of all.


	13. Chapter 13

Dear John. 

I would like to say I have started this letter a thousand times, that I’ve screwed them up and hurled them at the bin because none of them seemed right. But it's not true. The truth is I have been putting this letter off for weeks. Not even picked up a pen. I've been avoiding the taunt of this blank white page because I cannot stand its mocking. It tells me I’m afraid. And it's right. I’m terrified of your last letter John. You are somewhere I cannot go, somewhere I have never been. A place I do not think I can even hope to understand. I cannot get a grasp on your situation and I’m terrified. I know this may sound horribly selfish but I’ve just got to get this out while this bout of courage lasts. I must conquer this cursed blank page John. 

The truth of the matter is I cannot help you John. You need someone better than me. You deserve someone better than me. Please don't say there is only me. I could not bear it if you were left to suffer because of my inadequacies. Help yourself John. For god's sake help yourself! 

Death is not foreign to me. I cannot remember a time when it was. What is totally beyond me is the rawness of you. Your response. You amaze me John Watson and take this to heart because I never dabble in platitudes. Your passion and fervor, your anger astounds me. If I believed in him I would thank God that you are on our side. 

The only thing I can give you, this bent rusted little crutch in all your brokenness, is it is people like you who are the most powerful forces for change. This is just words. A vague truth. Bordering on banality. I'm not expecting you to be forever inspired by it, to treasure it like a lifeline. Just please accept it. Because it’s all I have to give. 

With all the love and friendship I posses.   
William Sherlock Scott Holmes 

Dear Sherlock   
I want to honest with you. Before receiving this letter I was furious. With you. I was angry that this letter was necessary, that you weren’t here with me, ready to fix the problem. I was angry that you did not respond right away. I was angry and bitter that you took so long, thinking you were formulating some grand and fatuous answer.   
I am angry still Sherlock but it is a hollow anger. I am ashamed of it yet still it lingers. I am ashamed at the way I have felt, thought and behaved towards you even if you were not here to suffer the consequences. Here you are, tentatively trying to be helpful. Friendly. Human. And there I was, ready to blast you for your coldness and inhumanity. I am sorry to have prejudged you Sherlock.   
Your willingness to make yourself vulnerable to help me… I cannot put it in words. I have never experienced this kind of friendship. I have friends who have had my back and I there's. I have not had friends who give me their heart and try to touch mine. I almost wish you weren’t. My heart is not fit for touching just now. It’s all broken shards and bitter spikes. I accept your crutch Sherlock, and while I will not lean on it I will hold it close.   
But as I said, I want to be honest with you. I'm still angry with you. I'm angry that you get to be there only hearing about this on the news. While I am here, living it. I want you here but more than that I want to be there   
I want to be brave. I want to be stoic. I want to soldier on. And I will. But I can’t make myself feel it. I do believe I am doing something useful here Sherlock. Something important. Something that matters. I just can’t feel it.   
The little girl is holding on by the way. Not quite on the mend just yet. But… stable. Alive.   
Yours in brokenness   
John Hamish Watson 

“John, you’re not on post op tonight. Ferny is.” Bethany one of the nurses commented from over her paperwork. She was in charge of the roster, she should know. John flinched at this perceiving it to be an accusation. He schooled calm into his voice before replying  
“Ferny and I did a trade. I did his post op and he did my kitchen shift.”  
“Ferny didn’t pull kitchen duty today, he’s been in his bunk slacking off. Like he is right now to be honest.”  
“Then it’s just as well I'm here to do his post op innit?” John said dismissively, replacing a bed chart on its hook and moving on.   
“John, why don’t you let me take over?” She said, showing concern for the first time since John’s known her “You’re wearing yourself to a frazzle”  
“I'm fine” John replied rather abruptly then masking it with a smile. “Besides, I'm doing a lot better than any of these guys aren’t I?” he smiled morbidly before looking away, focusing all his attention on the next patient’s chart. It didn’t warrant such attention. It was just a run of the mill stable and slowly improving patient. It was simply a case of ignoring the problem (namely Beth at this point in time) Bethany pinched her lips but said no more. John was glad when she left. Why couldn’t everyone just let him be? He was just doing his job. 

Darkness had fallen outside the hospital’s ramshackle walls and John Watson was still at work. All the post op patients were comfortable (or as comfortable as one can be after having 6 inch pieces of metal removed from their intestines) and asleep. There was really nothing left to do, at least nothing that couldn’t wait until morning. He’d run inventory, swept the floors and even washed out the bedpans. His eyelids were heavy and keep slipping shut. But he wouldn’t stop. He shouldn’t and couldn’t stop. If he was not useful he was nothing. Just a killer. A cog in the death machine. He would not be that. He could sleep when the war was over.   
He shuffled over to his little girl and gently began changing her dressings. The bandage at her belly came away to reveal the wound in all its glory. The gaping hole, the angry veins sticking out like cords, the weeping rivulets of pus and muck. Pushing down the revulsion that surged like vomit in his throat he drained the goo, cleaned it out and applied antiseptic. Everything he’d been trained to do. Systematically carried out, checked and rechecked. This is what he did. What he was. He was a doctor, a healer not a killer. By bringing back life he could drive away the death, undo the horror. His work could mean something. She shifted on the bed, stirring in her drug induced sleep. She’d been hysterical when she’d woken up last and nearly tore herself a new one (literally) so she’d been sedated until the worst of it had healed. John took her too-small and too-soft hand in his too-large and too-calloused one and just held it for a bit. Felt the pulse, the little heart still beating. The little life, enduring through all the chaos and trauma. At once, he felt useful, holding the life he had saved, and vowed never to be useless again.   
He made sure he wasn’t in the post-op ward come the morning shift. He didn’t want anyone noticing he’d pulled an all-nighter. He went to the mess and tried to choke down some cold eggs (or whatever they were). Mike came up beside him and chattered cheerfully, seemingly unmindful that John was neither replying nor actually listening. He probably hadn’t noticed that John’s bunk hadn’t been slept in either. Mike was a brilliant doctor but a bit dull in other areas. Part of the reason John was grateful to have him as a tent-mate. There was no chance of being fussed over. When he could stomach no more army-rations-masquerading-as-food he pushed his tray aside, forced down the last mouthful down his throat, and left the table. Mike only noticed he’d left a few minutes later.   
Rolling bandages. Washing scrubs. Powdering the rubber gloves. Checking and rechecking patients. Refilling IV bags. Changing dressings. Changing bedding. Removing or applying stiches. Picking up all the bloodied sponges and cotton from the operating room floor and then disinfecting the floor itself. Sanitizing operating tools. Making that one reticent patient eat/drink/sleep/lie still so a needle could be put in. Doing general check-ups. Making sure bed-sores/infection/deep vein thrombosis didn’t happen. All of these things John could do. All of these things he did. Anything not to be still, to be unhelpful. Anything not to think of Sherlock and the letter he had sent or the reply that had not yet come. 

He was filing patient notes when the paramedic team came in. The commotion brought him out of the back room and into the ward. A whole ambulance full of casualties, mostly civilians. He quickly snapped out of admin mode and into his doctor mind-set. In no time an area had been cleared for triage and treatment. This patient had minor wounds: category 4. Give blood transfusion, apply dressing and monitor for shock. Heatstroke victim: category 3. Give fluids and anti-nausea meds. Monitor vital signs. Thoracic trauma from shrapnel, 2nd and 3rd degree burns from the blast, category 2. Monitor for pneumothorax, prep for surgery to remove shrapnel and apply skin grafts. Bomb blast victim rapidly losing blood from their half blown away leg. Category 1. Urgently prep for surgery to have leg amputated, bleeding stopped and wound closed. John took care of this one himself, hurriedly scrubbing, putting on cap, gloves and gown. They rushed the man through to the operating room, closed the door, readied the instruments, put him under and began. 

God it was a hard slog. War time surgery is such fiddly, delicate work. No appendectomies or removal of tonsils. This was meatball surgery at its finest. The femoral artery had been severed and was spewing blood as cut arteries are wont to do. Even after being a doctor for a long time, being bathed in another person’s blood was a horrific experience. One John just had to ignore and move on from. He stemmed the flow, cut away at the blasted bone and severed tendons, removed the mangled lump of meat that used to be a leg, cleared away stray bone fragments that had punctured important things, one after the other clattering into the crimson stained kidney dish. This done, he sewed all the tiny lacerations shut with delicate cotton thread, agonising work. He was sweating profusely, caked in dirt, his front saturated with hot and rapidly drying blood, his eyes blurring and joints aching from fatigue. But he was working. He was fixing someone. A nurse mopped his brow. He pushed her away. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. The patient’s blood pressure was dropping, rapidly. He had to work quickly. Forcing his wearied body to comply, he knit the flesh together, closing off the wound. When the final stich had been completed he thought he may just fall down right then and there in the operating room. They wheeled the now half legless man out to have the wound dressed and blood/fluids replenished. He leant against the table for a moment, utterly spent. Bethany who, joy of joys, had been his anaesthetist during this whole ideal was giving that look again. She was just about to say something when John dragged his sorry body out of the room to dump his bloodied gown and scrub down. Just keep going he told himself. You can stop when there’s no more left to do. If you stop now it’ll be even harder to start up again. You’ll get lost in the inactivity. The nightmares will come back. For God’s sake just. Keep. Going.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock bust through the door of 221b, breathless and grinning from ear to ear. Ah, the post case high. There was nothing like it. Not even a cocaine shot did it like this. If only this could be relied on, he could live off cases alone. He threw himself down into his chair, not minding the blood spatter on his clothing. Mrs Hudson would throw a fit, which didn’t make sense when she kept insisting she was not his housekeeper, but then again Sherlock never could fathom Mrs. Hudson. Nor did he want to. There were much more exciting things to think about. Like where the next case was coming from. And the results of that homeostasis test. And John’s reply. John! Heavens above Sherlock! You idiot!   
The post case high disappeared like paper in the flame. His heart leapt into his throat and threatened to strangle him. He bolted to the door. The letter had been lying there for a week at least while he was on the other side of London, chasing murderers. And there was another envelope, fresher, newer. From the same address but not in John’s handwriting. From someone called Dr. Hilling PhD BSC. A psychiatrist. Why was a psychiatrist, an army psychiatrist, writing to him? John. It could only be about John. Oh God. With shaking hands he tore the seal, not trusting himself with the letter opener. Please God, let John be okay. 

(You’re not crazy John. You’re just tired. Very, very tired.) 

From the Desk of Dr. Janine Hilling PhD BSC  
Forwarded from the British Military Correspondence Centre   
Cardiff, Wales   
Dear Mr Holmes.   
I am the acting psychiatrist/support person for the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a unit currently deployed in Afghanistan. Recently your friend 1st lieutenant John Watson has come to the attention of my team. He has been referred to me after an incident took place in an army hospital he is currently stationed in. I thought it was only right to inform you, because of your friendship with John.   
It had been a shattering day. Not to mention they were in the middle of a heat wave. Everything was sticky and dusty and there was an oppressive atmosphere of shimmering air and body odour. People were dropping like flies from dehydration and heat stroke. No matter how many canteens of water or cups of coffee he downed, John could not shift the deep seated, dragging feeling of fatigue. His head swam, he seemed to see TV static behind his eyes.   
You may be aware that John has been a lot of pressure both physically and mentally from recent traumatic occurrences. He has been suffering from fatigue resulting from over-work, over stress and too little sleep. This compounded with a particularly triggering incident that occurred recently occurred at his clinic. 

He was about to call it quits. To crawl to his bunk and sleep. His body was literally crying out for it. He shivered in odd places, his hands twitching and leg jittering. His vision would blur if he moved too quickly. Then the alarm went off. Ambulance arrival from another base. Cases too severe for them to handle. Fantastic. Reaching down far into his gut, he pulled up the last shred of energy he had left in his reserves. Once more unto the breach.   
“What have we got here?’ he asked of the first paramedic to come in. The guy set the gurney down and gestured to those still bearing stretchers.   
“Truck full of refugees hit a landmine on the way out to the border”  
John’s gut tightened like a vice. More civilian casualties. Were there any soldier in this war or is it just innocents being blown to pieces? The smell of blood filled his nostrils and fragments of screaming rang in his ears, unbidden remnants of the past. He winced as if in pain. He would have shaken the images away if he didn't think the subsequent head rush would floor him completely.   
Moving like an automaton, he set up stations where people could be treated, setting up instruments, prepping IV lines, opening gauze.   
It was not a loud cry  
It was not a startling sound in amongst the cacophony of pain and fear.   
But for John it was the sound of his world falling of its axis and shattering in a billion shards.   
It was the whimper of a little girl.   
A young civilian came in, a girl from one of the surrounding villages would been injured in the blast. I understand that it was her leg that was the most affected, severely wounded from the effect of the explosion, subsequent burns and pieces of shrapnel. I was told she was quite a sight to behold when her father brought her in to John’s clinic.   
Covered in blood. The man’s hands were covered in rivers of his daughter’s blood. Life. Slowly seeping out of the crater torn open in her leg. John’s breath came in stops and starts, ragged and broken.   
He saw her, lying in her daddy’s arms, crying out in garbled Pashto   
He saw her, that one judgemental eye behind its bloody veil while her baby brother lies dead  
He saw her, the screaming girl with the spattered hijab while smoke still issues from his newly fired gun.   
He sees red   
He sees black   
His vision blurs. His blood is up. His heart feels dead in his chest.   
Suddenly he fall back into reality and the girl is his arms, the blood is on his hands, while his father and the rest of the staff plead desperately with him. Why are they staring at him like that? His weapon was in his hand and he was wielding it at them. When did that happen?   
“John, please, put the gun down” Beth’s voice was gentle. Beth’s voice was always gentle, even strong. She hadn’t seen what he had seen. She hadn’t seen anything. She put her hands up and he gripped the gun tighter.   
له ما سره مرسته کوي، هغه ماته ټپي!!!! help me he is hurting me!  
“John, she needs medical attention”  
“I’m… I’m going to treat her. I’m going to fix it. I… can fix, fix it.”  
“You’ve been awake for three days, probably more. You’re in no fit state to treat patients”  
“I’M FINE!!!” John would have liked to imagine he’d said that without shouting and jerking the gun about. They all took a step back. Good.   
مې ابك – save me daddy  
Blood on his shirt. Blood on her face, the girl with the dead brother. Would it never wash away? Would the flow never be stemmed? 

They tried to talk Dr. Watson down and get the situation under control but unfortunately things got out of hand when one of the paramedics acted rashly…   
The gurney bearer, terrified and out of his depth but desperately wanting to fix it all, to be a hero, started forward intent on ripping the gun from John’s hand.   
Adrenaline, fear, anger and years of armed combat training kicked it and John discharged his weapon in one easy, smooth move. Straight into the man’s knee. He fell with a thud and a cry. Patients were screaming. The girl was screaming. Her father was screaming.   
The world was burning down. The smoke filled his nose, his heart, his brain. His soul. He was trying to fix it. Couldn’t they see? And now he shot again. It was just as easy as last time. So very, very easy. Flash. Point. Killer.   
The girl was out of his arms. The gun was out of his hands. He was on the ground, hands over his ears, falling apart.   
Lieutenant John Watson experienced a nervous breakdown as a result from prolonged and severe strain on his body and a culmination of many traumatic experiences. He is currently in my care in a psychiatric care unit, recovering from his self-enforced starvation and lack of sleep. The paramedic who he injured has been made to understand the circumstances and as such will not be pressing charges. The girl received all due care. I am sorry to be the bearer of such distressing news Mr. Holmes and understand that this must not be very easy to process. We are working with John using counselling and assorted therapies and suggest that you seek out someone of your own to support you in this time, whether this be in a professional or familiar capacity. I will of course keep you updated regarding progress in John’s recovery as it arises.   
All Due Regards   
Janine Hilling.


	15. Sherlock's just a broken little boy

Mrs Hudson had dozed off in front of antiques roadshow (she always did). She usually woke up when the show ended and some awful infomercial came on. This was not a usual day. Today she woke to the sound of smashing crockery. She sat up with a start, all flustered for a moment. Sherlock! His mother’s good chinaware! She hurried out the door and down the stairs.  
The scene in 221b was terrifying. She’d seen Sherlock angry before. Of course she had. This was something else. Sherlock was screaming. No words just sound. This cool, composed genius, this master of calm cutting comments, was shrieking as he hurled plate after plate at the back wall of his living room. Each one smashed on impact, like bombs going off.  
“Sherlock!”  
He rounded on her like a wounded animal, practically snarling. “SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!!!” he snapped round and hurled a mug at the battered wall. She stifled a sob of fear and fled, hurrying up the stairs. What was that number his brother had given her?  
Mycroft sighed in annoyance as the vibration of his phone interrupted his train of thought. If this was mummy… he pulled his hone out and threw lazy glance at the screen. Sherlock’s landlady (that was literally the name he’d programed into his phone). He’d told her only to call him in emergencies! He slid the green icon across and answered the call.  
“I am a bit busy here, Mrs. Hudson”  
“I’m sorry Mr. Holmes, but your brother… he’s got himself into a bit of a state”  
Mycroft sat up straighter. “What kind of state?”  
“He’s screaming and throwing things…”  
“I’ll be right there” He jabbed the end button, pocketed his phone and stood. It did not show on his face, but icy fear had sprung up in his heart. He knew this was not usual. And very much not good. Images of syringes whirled in his head, memories of a strung out Sherlock, Sherlock in withdrawals. Very much not good.  
When he arrived at the door of Sherlock’s cesspit sorry, “flat”, it was ominously quiet. Like the quiet on the Western front. He gently eased the door open. His brother was on the couch, coiled tighter than a set spring on a rat trap. His back was ramrod straight, flush against the back of the couch. His knees were drawn up to his belly and he hugged them to them so tight his knuckles were whiter even than his usual pallor. His chin was pressed on his knee caps and his eyes were screwed shut. The floor was littered with shattered china shrapnel. The wall bore the tell-tale pits and scars.  
“What do you want Mycroft?” Sherlock was desperately trying to be vicious, scathing, and defensive. But his voice was breathy and broken, like the power had gone out of him. Mycroft put aside his usual pomp and chastisement, lowering himself into one of the arm chairs.  
“Mrs. Hudson called me”  
“Of course she did”  
“She thought something might be wrong”  
“Why would she think that?”  
“You have odd habits Sherlock but we both know none of those include smashing crockery”  
“It’s for a case. Man killed his wife with broken pottery”  
“And the screaming?”  
Sherlock scooted closer into the sofa. Mycroft sighed. He was retreating away from him just when he needed to get to the root of the problem.  
“I wasn’t screaming”  
“Mrs. Hudson is not afflicted with auditory hallucinations brother mine. Something’s wrong.”  
He clenched up tighter. “Nothing is wrong”  
“Then why won’t you look at me?”  
“It’s a free country. I can look where I please. Besides which, I don’t like looking at you. You’re too big”  
Mycroft smiled. “Come along brother. You can do better than that”  
“Leave me alone Mycroft. I don’t want you.”  
“Who do you want?”  
“I’m not a child Mycroft.”  
“Then why were you having a tantrum?”  
Sherlock looked up at that. Boy, did he look up. His head snapped up so quickly he was risking whiplash. His eyes meet Mycroft’s like laser sights meet the bulls’ eye. This startled Mycroft more than he cared to admit. Eyes so red and raw, shining with beading tears.  
“I BROKE DOWN! HE BROKE DOWN! EVERYTHING IS WRONG!” the cowering weakling was gone, replaced by a wounded spitting rabid creature.  
“Who broke Sherlock?”  
“GET OUT! JUST GET OUT! I DON’T WANT YOU!”  
Mycroft hurried out. It was clear there would be no reasoning with Sherlock just now. Sherlock slammed the door after him and leant against it, heaving empty sobs and ragged breaths.  
The letter suggested he talk to someone. Just when he’d been hurt he should open himself up to someone else? Why did this hurt so much? He could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him, hear his voice in his head. Caring is a dangerous disadvantage. Why did he have to be right? John had told him it wasn’t. It was good. It made you better. Sherlock had believed him. Stupidly he’d believed him. And it had felt so good. He’d felt safe. Secure. Valued. Validated. Admired. Loved even. So why was it so painful now? This sentiment made no sense. It was not he who was suffering. It was John. John who’d run himself into the ground, trying so hard to be important. Sherlock thought he was important, was that not enough? Sherlock knew it. Why should he have to prove it himself? Sherlock grunted and forced himself to stand. John must be fixed. He’d said they could just be broken together. But that wasn’t working. Sherlock was not ready to be broken. He could fix this. He could. John said he was a genius. Data. He needed more data. Obviously this “Janine” person could not be trusted. She couldn’t even remember John’s rank properly. (He was a second lieutenant) but she had to be useful for something. She probably knew where John was staying and how he could get into contact with him

If Mycroft was a different man he would call what he was feeling emotional strain. As he was, he called it “his burden as the older sibling”. Everyone else defined him by his profession, his appearance, his demeanour. He defined himself by the role he had carved out for himself since Sherlock was born. Protector. He cancelled all other commitments and went home. This problem required all his attention. The fact that Sherlock was a grown man and may just need some space never entered his head. His little brother was broken. He must be fixed. Maybe that correspondence friend of his could be of some assistance. Letters from him had been pretty scarce as of late. Time to pull some strings.  
Despite the fact that he had practically invented red tape, some silly little intern still thought it would be a good idea to stand in his way. Silly child. He sent him away buried under so much jargon and forms to fill out it’s unlikely he’d ever see day light again. He had just got through to the hospital and was about to put in the call when Sherlock burst through the door, breathing as if the air was being forcibly torn from his lungs.  
“Sherlock!” Mycroft stepped away from his computer, startled by this turn of events. Usually when life got too much, his brother retreated into a bolt hole to lick his wounds and wait for the cracks in his visage to knit back together. He definitely didn’t come seeking anyone out. Mycroft thought for one horrid second he wanted to confront him and escalate their previous conflict. He stepped back and gripped the edge of his desk.  
Sherlock just leaned against the door frame and took a breath. “Don’t fluster yourself Mycroft. I haven’t come here to cause a scene” his voice had the ring of someone who has made a decision, who has decided not to let their life slip through their fingers and smash on the floor. This both reassured and startled Mycroft. Something inside his baby brother had grown up today and he wasn’t sure he would like the change.  
“Why have you come then?”  
“to exploit any latent brotherly tendencies you may have.”  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“Your position Mycroft. I’ve come to utilize it for personal gain. I need you to get through to the hospital John is being kept in.”  
Mycroft opened his mouth but Sherlock wasn’t done “Don’t tell me you don’t know him because you do. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to get through because you do. Don’t ask me why because I just need to and I will. Can you do it?”  
Mycroft stuttered internally before replying “I’ve already done it. I was about to put the call through”  
Naked emotion played across Sherlock’s face, making Mycroft’s gut twist uncomfortably. His muscles seemed to twitch and Mycroft read his intentions  
“Careful Sherlock. You are veering dangerously close to a display of affection.”  
Sherlock stiffened, took a breath and nodded. He darted a hand out. It took a beat before Mycroft realized he was offering to shake hands. Uncomfortably, He reciprocated.  
“Thank you for restraining yourself”  
Sherlock nodded again, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets and balling them into fists. “May I…?”  
“Oh yes. Of course. I’ll step out a moment.”  
Mycroft exited, leaving Sherlock to make the call. He prayed he’d done the right thing.  
Sherlock forced his hands not to shake as he put the call through. He got a receptionist and forced himself to be polite. He was so charming in fact she put him through to the skype account and promised she’d find John and connect him to a computer. Controlled anger lurking behind charm was a real force to reckon with.  
John saw her before she saw him. Ella, the resident psych. His gut tensed and his hands tightened, knotting themselves in his bed sheets. Ella looked nice enough and was probably a very good psychologist/psychotherapist/ whatever the hell she was. But there was no way John was talking to her about his life. He’d make small talk to the damn Middle East conflict ended. No personal business. These were his problems. He would fix them. He wasn’t mental or disturbed and he didn’t have some complex. Yes he’d overworked himself but now he knew his limits surely he’d only be healthier for it. A little rest, a bit of feeding up and he expected to be good as new. Surely the nightmares would pass. And the fact that they’d begun to enter his mind even in his waking moments…. Just stress. Probably. She’d seen him. She was walking up to him, sitting herself down on the edge of his bed. He schooled his face in a smile that mirrored hers. He’d smiled through his parents break up. Through their separate funerals where neither side of the family would talk to each other and Harry turned up drunk. He’d smiled through many, many things. He would smile through this.  
“Hello, Lieutenant Watson, I’m Ella” she offered her hand. He took it calmly and gave it a friendly shake  
“Please, call me John” Making a connection. That’s what she wanted. He could pretend.  
She smiled “I’ll do that. Now, John I’m sure you know why I’m here”  
“Excuse me, Lieutenant Watson, there’s a call come through for you.”  
John sat up straighter, a temporary crack forming in his mask. “From my base?” did they need him back already? Was it the girl? Had she gone critical?  
“No, it’s a skype call. A government representative, a Sherlan Holmes….”  
“Sherlock?” why would Sherlock be calling him? How would he even get through?  
“Yes that’s the one. He said it was urgent that he speak to you”  
Ella was visibly irritated “we are actually in the middle of something…”  
“Oh, I can come back…”  
“No. I’ll take the call. In private.” He was only a junior officer but he had enough experience in how to make people listen. And right now he was not in the mood to be defied. His directive was followed. Ella made a professional, if begrudging exit and the orderly handed him a laptop and some earphones.  
“I’ll tell him you’re online.”

“Sherlock?! What are you doing calling here? How did you even get this number?”  
“No, John”  
“What?”  
“That’s not what we’re going to talk about. We aren’t going to exchange small talk, get into semantics and dance around the problem.”  
“Problem?”  
“You didn’t think you having a mental breakdown was a problem? You really think that little of your wellbeing John?”  
John’s heart dropped so far you could have heard the thud as it landed on the floor. “I… I… who told you that? That’s not true!”  
Sherlock drew a sharp breath and clenched his jaw, holding something back. “Your therapist wrote to me John. She told me everything”  
John rocked back in the bed, fighting back the surging panic that filled his lungs like pulmonary oedema. He put his hand to his head and pulled at his hair. “It wasn’t like that. I just got a bit overtaxed”  
“So that drip in your hand is just for ornamental purposes?”  
“Fuck!” John had completely forgotten that was in. he would’ve pulled it out right then but the doctor’s instinct deep inside him knew it was his best chance of recovering from the severe dehydration he’d put himself through. He couldn’t stop his fingers twitching and clenching over it. He must look like a real head case. Fuck.  
“I was doing my job and just got a bit carried away…” the lies were so easy. He could roll them off his tongue like marbles. He would have continued if Sherlock hadn’t crumpled at the waist, pitched forward and given a strangled scream.  
“You don’t get to do that! NO! You don’t get to… To abandon yourself, to put everyone needs over yours. You don’t get to act like you don’t matter when I know damn well that you do!”  
“Sherlock, it’s my concern…” there they go again. Rolling off his tongue.  
“… It’s mine too! When you became my friend you made it my concern. You don’t get to fix me and let yourself lie broken. You don’t get to matter so much to me and mean nothing to yourself. You don’t get to be my first friend, to show me what it is to love someone and then hate yourself. I won’t let you.” Sherlock’s words weren’t fluid like John’s. His were crashing cars, breaking glass. A punch to the windpipe. It was getting harder for John to control himself.  
“Why do I matter so much?” the question leaked out of him, air escaping a tire. “Because of what I do? I’m a doctor, I fix people that’s why I matter. So I’ve got to keep fixing them…”  
“Being a doctor is more than something you do John. It’s who you are. Who you have been from the day you were born. You don’t always have to be acting on that to validate it. You were a doctor, a healer for me and all you did was write letters. You protected me. It’s who you are.”  
John gave an abrasive chuckle that took more breath than he really had “You want to remember Sherlock I’m a soldier. I’ve killed people.”  
“You’re a Doctor. You save lives and defend patients”  
“I have bad days.”  
“Bad days don’t make you a bad person. They just make you… a person. Let yourself just be, John. Please. For me and for you.”  
“Sherlock… don’t… please.”  
Sherlock sucked on his bottom lip. “I had to John. It’s my job. I’m your friend… aren’t I?”  
“Yes Sherlock. You are my friend”  
“And friends take care of each other yes?”  
“Yes.”  
“Then let me take care of you.” 

A nurse had seen John get more and more upset and had terminated the call, allowing them both to say goodbye before insisting John rest and closing the laptop. A sigh tore out of Sherlock and his head seemed too heavy to hold. He crossed his arms over the desk and let his head fall forward. “Get better John. Please get better. Just, don’t be broken.”  
Mycroft peeked through the ajar door, watching strings of speech leak out of his brother. He got it now. He realized that finally there was someone else out there to take care of his brother. Another protector. And this one had accomplished something that had eluded him all his years. He taught Sherlock to protect himself. And he’d done it by softening him down, not by hardening him up. And now Sherlock must learn something completely new. He must be the protector and look after those he cares about. Mycroft hoped, for his and John’s sake that he was up to the task.  
John stepped through that door, the one he’d stepped through so many times. The operating theatre. Clad in green scrubs that seemed to shimmer. Clean. He felt the breath in his lungs. Clean. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, regular, calm. Until he saw it. The mess on table. First it was a man with a punctured lung. Then a boy with burns. Then a girl whose every limb hung by a tendon. Blood on his shoes. His heart beat increasing, speed, volume. Blood on his shirt. A gun shot! Blood on his hands. His hand twitched and bullet holes appeared in the walls. Somewhere a cry and a knife was in his hands. He was in his fatigues. No, he was in bloodied scrubs. No! He was in full combat gear. Blood in his mouth. He couldn’t breathe. Somewhere the cry grew fainter.  
With a strangled scream, John was awake and sitting up. His hands clenched so tight, he’d drawn blood from his palms. The sheets were cold from where he’d wet the bed, sometime during the night. Everything in his mind screamed for him to get up, to clear up the mess. But he couldn’t move. Why should he? He was of no use. May as well just lay here, wet, broken and bleeding……  
It had been 5 days since John had been admitted to hospital. He’d recovered from the dehydration and malnutrition. He was sleeping at least a few hours every day and night. In John’s books he was recovered, triggering conversations with Sherlock aside. But the nurses and doctors disagreed. John couldn’t relax. He was constantly twitching, jittering, moving. He’d gotten leave to do some minor exercises and did them constantly. Walking round the hospital. Sit ups. Push ups. Stretches. Anything to not be still. One of the nurses reckoned John was getting stressed out being in the same place for so long and feeling useless. Hearing on the grapevine of his contributions to a Red Cross home, she organised for him to visit. John jumped at the chance, but was dismayed to hear he was definitely not visiting in an official capacity and was forbidden from performing any medical duties or care. Nevertheless, he boarded the Jeep and let himself be transported to the home. He was met warmly, if a little warily at the gates. It was clear the staff had been briefed on the terms of his visit and as such knew of his … problem. John bristled at these unfamiliar people getting a window into his weakness and insufficiencies. His hand clenched involuntarily and he fought to stay calm. Unbidden, Sherlock’s voice began to play in his head “Being a doctor is more than something you do John. It’s who you are. Who you have been from the day you were born. You don’t always have to be acting on that to validate it” He wanted to believe him. He really did. But he just couldn’t. He put it out his mind, burying it in the dark where he knew it would not stay, and proceeded forward into the home.  
They were having lunch, or at least just finishing up. The children sat on blankets laid out on the floor. They ate rice with their fingers from communal bowls. The air was filled with heat and food smells as well as the sounds of laughter and chatter. John was shown to a seat and his hands were washed for him. One of the boys beside him looked up from his plate and smiled at him. John found himself instinctively smiling back. It occurred to him that this was the most genuine smile he’d experienced in a very long time. His smile wobbled a bit. The boy tilted his head to the side, confused. John took a breath, wiped an errant tear away and smiled bigger. The boy reciprocated, showing his missing teeth. He pushed his tongue forward, poking it through the gap and crossing his eyes. John laughed. Something broken inside him rattled. Clacked against another piece of him. He felt it now. He understood. This child had something he didn’t have, something he used to have but had lost somewhere in this crap-fest. Life. Simple joy. He wasn’t just existing, fulfilling a function. He was living. He laughed again. He probably looked crazy. Didn’t matter he was crazy. Crazy for letting this go on so long. He felt warmth on his arm, a small tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see the boy staring up at him, grinning that cheeky grin. He spoke but John couldn’t understand, or even recognise his mother tongue. He looked around and pulled over one of the health workers. She listened to him and smiled  
“He’s asking if he can show you the soccer ball he received yesterday”  
“Oh, um sure”  
The health worker, whose name tag read “Fatima” translated and the boy hopped up eagerly, grabbing John’s hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Fatima tagged along, helping John keep up with the boy’s constant chatter.  
“He says his name is Ahmed. He wants to know yours”  
“My name is John”  
Ahmed screwed up his face in bemused amusement  
“He says that’s a funny name. You can imagine not a lot of people are called John around here”  
John smiled “No, I guess not. Tell him not a lot of boys are called Ahmed where I come from”  
“He says, is there football where you come from?”  
“Oh yeah. We practically invented it!”  
That was all Ahmed needed to know. The ball was a bit dingy and beat up. Clearly second hand but also very clearly cherished. Once the other children saw him chucking a ball around it wasn’t long before a small crowd gathered, buzzing around him and laughing as he tried to balance a ball on his head. To them he wasn’t John, the one who’d had a mental breakdown down or John the one who’d shot someone. He was John, the one who’d given them food and warm clothes, who played with them when he came to visit and did silly things with footballs. That was a nice change of pace.


	16. Chapter 16

This time when Ella came to speak to John they actually had something to talk about. John was beaming as he told her all about his experiences at the children’s home, and even how he planned to go back. He showed her pictures, recounted anecdotes and told her over and over again how funny the children were. Ella smiled along with him but it was less at the amusement factor of the stories and more about the way John face looked when he smiled. From the moment he’d arrived in this place John hadn’t smiled once. Until now.   
“And what about your friend, that Mr. Holmes. Have you told him these stories?”  
The smile fell and Ella wished, not for the first time, that it wasn’t her job to poke at the softest sorest parts of people. That pain could be ignored. But it simply wasn’t true.   
“No. No, I haven’t”  
“why not?”  
“He wouldn’t be interested. He doesn’t like children. He doesn’t like people in general really”  
“He’s interested in you John. If it matters to you it matters to him. That’s the nature of friendship.”

When you became my friend you made it my concern….

“Not our friendship. Ours is different”  
“Really? How so?”  
John took a breath and Ella could sense walls beginning to form. She made a mental note not to push this too hard.   
“Sherlock doesn’t… he’s not…. He’s not very good at person to person interaction. I’m his only friend”  
“Some people only need one John”  
“It’s not that it’s… he doesn’t know how. No one taught him how friends work”  
“if he’s so ignorant, how did you to become friends?”  
“He’s not repellent. It’s not that he can’t make friends… It just requires more give from the other person”  
“Seems to me that it’s been all give.”  
“That’s what he needs.” John insisted, desperate to convince her.   
“John that’s not a friendship. A friendship is symbiotic, two way street. Maybe Sherlock has more to give than you understand”  
Let me take care of you….   
“Have you two been talking?”  
Ella’s lips quirked in confusion “No. why do you ask?”  
That ragged breath again. “Because he said much the same thing.”  
“What did he say?”  
He hedged, fidgeting, eyes meeting hers and then flitting away.   
“You don’t have to quote him verbatim. Just the gist is fine”  
“He said… he said I act as if I don’t matter”  
“You disagree?”  
“I don’t understand why he would say that”  
“Maybe he noticed that you weren’t taking care of yourself, always putting others ahead as a rule”  
“That’s my job. That’s what good doctors do”  
“No John. Always putting people first so you suffer is not work ethic. It’s a recipe for a breakdown.”  
I fix people that’s why I matter  
“How are you supposed to do your job, to keep others healthy when you are running on no food and no sleep? Imagine if the doctors who treated you when you came in, imagine if they were like that. Would they be doing the best job they could?”  
The question was left to hang, an awkward weight that made the air feel heavier.  
“What do I do?”  
“I’m sorry John, it doesn’t work like that. There’s no prescription, no 3 step plan that’s going to fix this problem. We can give you food to energise you. Bed-rest for fatigue and fluids for rehydration but there’s nothing we can give to convince you that you are worthy of looking after if you don’t believe that.”  
“Who said I don’t believe I’m worth looking after?”  
“You did when you ignored bodily needs to pull a 3 day post op shift. You of all people know how to keep yourself healthy, what the body needs to function. And yet you deprive yourself. Why?”  
“Because if I don’t people die!” the words ripped out of a deep, wounded place in John and they hurt. Ella could see it on his face. Following an instinct, she put a hand on his shoulder.   
“John, this is a warzone. People are going to die. Even all the best doctors in the world can’t save everyone.”  
“I have to save someone.”  
“You have John and you will continue to. You are a good doctor. But not everyone.”  
“So what? I just ask people to stop bleeding so I can stop for lunch?”  
The scorn was razor-sharp but Ella didn’t flinch away. She knew where this was coming from and it wasn’t meant for her. She was just the safest target.   
“Of course not. We always do the best we can, for every patient. But you must understand that your best can only stretch so far. You haven’t been doing your best John. You’ve been trying to do more than your best. And you can’t”  
Let yourself just be, John. Please.

\------------------------  
So much came back to him as he slept that night. Snippets and snatches of what seemed to be every letter.   
Help yourself John. For god's sake help yourself!  
I want you here but more than that I want to be there  
no you are not a “flashpoint killer  
My heart is not fit for touching just now  
You cannot know just how honoured I am to receive this news that a friendship exists between us.  
I didn’t see the man’s face but I saw the gun  
With all the love and friendship I posses  
If by my humanity I can save just one life I consider it a privilege to experience all the crap this war throws my way.  
I am sorry to have prejudged you Sherlock.  
I'm a lost man reaching out  
I cannot fathom why you feel I have a right to know so much of you  
I saved a family yesterday Sherlock, just by re-setting a bone properly. Yes I do feel quite proud of myself at this particular moment.  
I see a hard working soldier… I see a doctor… I see an eldest child… I see a deep thinker, a humble man, a man sometimes turned so much on himself he forgets where he is.   
You are my friend Sherlock. I am yours.   
Let yourself just be, John. Please.

Sherlock sat alone on the floor, his flat cold and dark. His only light one wan bulb casting the puddle of yellow in which he was sat. Next to him a shoebox, battered and bent a little out of shape. From this unremarkable box he drew out a slightly crumpled, sweat stained piece of paper. Common enough stationary but he cradled as gently as holy writ newly discovered. He pored over it, the memory of John’s voice rumbling like a warmth through his head. From that small memory of their skype conversations he could imagine every lilting nuance every catch of breath and dropped vowel. Absentmindedly he traced a finger over his favourite words. Friendship received the softest caress, worshipful, afraid it might break. His phone buzzed. Lestrade was calling him with a case. Normally he would have leapt upon it, seizing it up to hungry eyes. But his eyes were sated and his mind faraway from cases. The sound passed him by without leaving a mark. As he began to surface like a swimmer for air the realities of the current situation tightened his throat. He turned away as red hot waters brimmed in his eyes he didn’t want the ink on the letters to run. He didn’t want lasting evidence of this moment, this one moment that would ruin so much that he’d worked for, destroy the fragile balance he’d perfected over so many years. His hands tightened around the paper, to the extent he was afraid he might tear it and had to prise them away.   
He placed it reverently back in the envelope and slotted it back into place. He took up a pen and, motivated by the pain in his heart, began to pour it all out. 

Dear John  
I know since I had the last word during our exchange over Skype just recently, that custom dictates you get the next work. However in times such as these such stupid impractical customs cannot be allowed to stand. I tread all over this custom and I care not. This message was too important to be impaired by social niceties.   
First though there is a burden on me that seems to be burning me up, though I exhibit no physiological symptoms. I am given to supposing it is emotions again. I am subject to so many of these since our friendship developed. This is something I do not understand. All I know is that is paramount to all future endeavours, wholeness and wellbeing that you get better. You simply must John. I want to help, in any way I can. Suggest something, get the psychiatrist woman to suggest something don’t leave me here in the uselessness you abhor so much. (I begin to understand your perspective on this sentiment John. If I felt the way I feel about you now with everyone it would nearly drive me out of my mind. But you cannot fix the whole wide world. Not if you don’t start with yourself first.)   
How can I help you John? I cannot understand how you even got to this place. You know how the human body works. You know what it needs. This is not a fault of ignorance. The only option left is purposeful neglect which is unthinkable. But I have always said once the impossible is removed the facts left, however improbable must be true. This begs the question why? Why would you purposefully neglect yourself? Not for the good of patients, for there are many other doctors and nurses there ready to step in and assist and you are not so foolish that you can do your best work half dead. No, it goes deeper than this. I can do this. I can deduce you better John. What do I know of you? Quintessential British boy, polite and well-mannered to a fault. The eldest child who took a heavy role in the raising of your sibling, so a history of taking responsibility of others. You did so out of duty? Necessity? Probably both, one born out of the other. If you slipped up your sibling suffered. From a poor family undoubtedly, judging by the mending on your clothing and other belongings. You are used to making do, living on a shoestring, repair because you cannot afford to replace. Poverty often leads a sense of disempowerment. I’m really on fire now John. I’m right aren’t I? See I can fix this. The feeling of duty, compounded with the fear of uselessness leading to real harm i.e. the going without food. More importantly the endangering of physical health. So you learnt about how to keep healthy, so as to stave off physical illnesses which would be both emotionally upsetting and financially straining. And then your parents died! They died John! Leaving you actually really in charge. Not just out of duty you really were the provider, protector and carer you had been all those years behind the scene. You couldn’t save your parents John! They died, while you were learning to be a doctor. Even with all your knowledge you couldn’t save them. That’s true isn’t it John! And because they died they left behind more responsibility and burden. Oh god John. You’ve been doing this your whole life…… how is it you haven’t broken until now. You were so strong it took all the trauma of a war zone to break you. Oh John. Oh God. 

Sherlock sat shaking at his desk, the pen twitching in his hands. The words on the page had started to blur but he couldn't pull his eyes away. He felt drained, empty as if something had been wrenched out of him. He felt dizzy and a little bit sick. Damn his insight! Damn his deductions! Seeing things that were not his to see, prying into things he had no right to know and now he couldn't not know. He wishes he could undo this thing. He can't. But at least he can do damage control. Obviously John must never see this letter. He could not know that Sherlock knew until he was comfortable doing so. And if that was never than so be it. Sherlock was standing though he didn't remember leaving his seat. He seized the letter and folded it up as small as it would go. He wanted to burn it, to tear it to pieces but the words on the page seemed sacred somehow. Not his to desecrate. He shouldn't have them in the first place. It was almost like possessing a stolen bible or some other holy writ.   
He buried it instead, at the back of a old shoebox filled with solved case reports and school grades that he knew he would never read or throw out. He sat down on his bed and remained there until he fell limp, asleep. A deep dead sleep where black fibres swirl at the edges but never made it past his eyes. 

“John!”   
John looked up to the doorway, reflexively closing the notebook in his hands, holding it close like the private thing it was.  
“The things you requested from the base are here. Do you want me to unpack them or leave them for you?”  
“I’ll go through them. Thanks Warren.”   
the orderly smiled, raising a hand and moving on. He was always busy. John swung his legs over, slipping off the bed neatly to the floor. He stowed the book and pen away, somewhere convenient yet out of the way. There wasn’t much waiting for him in the doorway, one solitary brown box, ordinary yet stark against the non-committal grey-green walls. He hadn’t asked for much. There wasn’t much to send. It’s kind of galling that people have gone through his things, touched things, put their hands on things , parts of his heart behind his back. But this was the only way really. There was no way they were going to let him go to base just yet and the need to have these things close had been nagging like withdrawal pains. So strangers rifling through his possessions it must be. He could only hope they didn’t feel sullied.   
He hefted the box up into his arms and proceeded back to his room, albeit a little crookedly because of the listing of the contents in the box. The bed gave a little bouncing creak as he sat down, more a welcome back then a groan of protest. He could almost remember when his bunk made that sound when he lay down. He slit open the tape with the nub of his pen (no access to knives in this place, oft for good reason) and reverently brought things out into the light, an archaeologist discovering hidden treasure. A prodigal son coming home. 

The first thing his hand closed around was his picture. Rigid card turned to reveal shining portrait of the one outlier in his calculations to run himself into oblivion. Eyes darkly bright like backlit blackholes, peering tentativley over a tightly clutched camera phone that obscured the rest of his face. No matter John’s sub-concious came in like something out the Gestalt theory, completing the rest from memory   
The startling contrast between the darkness of his hair and the pallor of his skin. The dramatic sweep to the cupids bow of his mouth, the sharpness of his eyes and nose.   
His voice sounded somewhere in the back of his mind, as it was wont to do of late whenever he surfaced in John’s thoughts. Three dimensional surround sound.   
“No I am not watching “the YouTube”. I am on a video call with my friend John who I have been sending letters to.”  
When you became my friend you made it my concern  
Friend. 

When John to sleep that night his dreams came like dreams should. Slowly, politely. Building from fragments to a crescendo of lucid images.   
He sat bent over a desk, reading medical reports by the light of a gas lantern. It was dark with the kind of dark that only came when the power was down. He must get these finished. His pen moved hesitantly gratingly over the page.   
“John you look tired” the voice struggled for a face. John got the sense it was there but lacked physical presence.   
“I’m fine” he said in a silent voice   
A beat later “then why do you keep rubbing your eyes? You’re shaking and it’s not cold. You’re body’s trembling with the energy it’s expending to keep you awake.”  
“I have to get these done.”  
“Yes, you do. But not right now. They can wait until tomorrow when you have the strength and mental capacity to do them properly.”  
John looked at the paper and realized it bore no script actually recognisable as words. Scribbles blended together as pseudo English indecipherable.   
“You’re right”  
“I know.”  
John felt himself smile “Smarmy Bastard”

John could see his smile mirrored in Ella’s eyes. Even better than that it was mirrored on her face too. “Isn’t that great?”   
“Yes John. That is great. But, I don’t want you to get over excited. One dream does not a recovery make”  
john’s face fell just a little. Not to a frown. More like it just reset to neutral.   
”Don’t get me wrong. This is a good sign. A very good sign. Like when you began eating and sleeping regularly. Happy is good don’t discount happy. But you don’t discharge a patient as soon as his vital signs improve. You wait until he’s really healed.”   
Ella had found John understood her explanations better when she used medical jargon and comparisons. It was a code he was used to speaking, something he knew was important and therefore listened to better.   
“Do you think... When do you... I mean...”  
“When will you be able to get back to your base?” Ella knew it wasn’t good psychological practice to finish sentences for people. They should arrive at their own conclusions. But she did it as a friend, not his therapist.   
John smiled in relief, happy to gain permission to ask such a loaded question   
“Before I answer that, let me ask you, why are you so keen to get back?”  
John frowned, turning his head away. Ella saw it anyway. “Sorry John. You know as a psychiatrist I’m trained to never give a straight answer”  
That friendly self depreciation helped. British humour was another thing John responded well to.   
“I just wanna get back to doing my job. I know life in a warzone is never really normal but that was my normality. More than that, it was my calling. I know some crazy shit went down in there but I felt useful. This war is horrendous and I have to respond. I have to make it better”  
“You’re not worried about breaking under the stress again?”  
John paused for a moment. Good he was thinking it over, not just telling her what she wanted to hear. “you’ve given me so many strategies and counselling and Sherlock’s been so supportive, scarily so I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him. With all that behind me I want to go in again. With all that behind me I know I can do it and I want to prove it.”   
Ella smiled a smile she felt. In this job she smiled many smiles. She had a consoling smile, a tell me more smile, a i know you’re bull-shitting me smile and then there was this one. The I’m honestly pleased with your progress smile.   
“I want you to prove it too.”

 

Sherlock was standing inside a ring of yellow tape declaring “do not pass - crime scene”. His hands were balled deep inside the pockets of his belstaff coat and as ever he cut a striking silhouette against the sad London grey sky. This sensation, this experience was so familiar to him it was like noticing when you breathe. When you are just doing it it is natural fluid and easy. When you notice it, your chest starts to constrict, the pattern gets out of whack and it suddenly becomes so much harder than it should be. It is so hard to not think, especially when you are Sherlock Holmes. Right now he was not looking at the blood spatter evidence the bank thief had left behind, he was not listening to the staff describe the security footage depicting him taking hostages and he was not analysing the bullet holes in the wall. He was looking nowhere, every where it didn’t matter because he wasn’t seeing. He was thinking. Thinking about John. This case was at least an 8 and a half and he was thinking about John. This case was the first one he’d had in weeks and he was thinking about John. This case had blood, danger, locked doors and an international gang ring behind it and Sherlock. Was thinking. About John. 

When he didn’t answer his question the third time around Lestrade knew something was up. Sherlock would ignore him first time around because he was deep in thought. Second time because he enjoyed irritating him. But never 3 times. 3 times was unheard off. In fact Sherlock being silent at a crime scene was unheard of.   
“Sherlock? Are you okay?”  
”Hmm?”  
his phone bleeped. Ting tong. he pulled it out. The text was from Mrs. Hudson who never texted. It read your soldier friend sent you a Skype alert. He wants to discuss something with you. Can you get home?  
“I have to get home” more to himself than anyone else. Sherlock turned and ran, ran, from the crime scene, deaf to Lestrade’s cries. Everything became that one notification icon awaiting him in 221b. 

He thundered up the stairs, most likely disturbing Mrs. Hudson downstairs. He didn’t think of that. He fumbled with the key in the lock, probably scratching and dinting its internal mechanism. He didn’t think of that. Once the door was unlocked he threw it open and it smacked against the wall, probably damaging the wall. He didn’t think of that. The only thing on his mind was that striped orange and white box labelled “British Base Bravo: Sherlock, sorry I’m not available for video chat but I wanted to let you know how I’m doing with my recovery.... 

 

“which is why I think that you should go back to your base.”  
John actually physically twitched in excitement. His face glitched between relief and anxiety, expectation and nerves. “just like that? No tests or... Or obstacles, second opinions?”  
“no, not just like that. It will be a provisional return. You will have sessions with me every week then all going well every two weeks, then three and so on. You will be eased back into your duties and expected to be self monitoring in eating and sleeping habits. If any of these are found to be unhealthy or unsafe you will be pulled out of work. Do you understand?”   
“will other people know?”  
Ella sighed. She wished there was not this ever present fear and stigma surrounding mental illness and psychiatry. What was wrong with needing help? Everyone needed help. “this will be kept as confidential as you want it to be. Do keep in mid however that your breakdown was public”  
Ella saw it as progress that John’s fist no longer clenched tight enough for nails to puncture the skin on his palm when he heard the word “breakdown”.   
“Yeah I know. I’d rather people just not get any deeper into my psyche.”  
“fair enough. Your life is exactly that. Your own. Whatever your comfortable with. Now, I suggest you go and pack up your things.”  
“Gladly”

 

“I’m moving back to my base....”  
Sherlock’s heart clenched. John was going back into that place. That place of trauma and grief. That place that had broken his John. And he was going back. The other words seemed to shimmer and fade.   
“it’s only a provisional placing but I’m really glad to be getting back. Sherlock, you have been so supportive during this whole process I really wanted to tell you about this. Please get in touch as soon as you can.”  
Oh John.... What are you doing?


	17. The blood begins to clot, the skin begins to knit

Mycroft sat at home typing up a report. He was typing up a report for the UN on the recent Korean elections. He wasn’t looking at the package sitting on his desk. He wasn’t thinking about its contents and he definitely wasn’t feeling guilty that it was on his desk and not in the hands of the intended recipient. 

It had been ridiculously easy to have this package waylaid at Customs. The postal department was so deep under his thumb he could make sure no one ever got a package again. When something is so easy to do you forget to think about it. The justifications he’d used at the time where sound. John was in his confidence but was being uncooperative in his sharing of information. He had to be treated as a hostile witness. Frankly he was getting on Mycroft’s nerves so there may have been some petty spite behind his motivation. Of course now things had changed. He couldn’t tell Sherlock he had taken it. But he couldn’t open it either. Now it was so much more than a person conspiring with his brother behind his back. It was a gesture from a friend, a friend who’d become really important to Sherlock. 

There was no denying it now. He was definitely thinking about the package. He pushed his chair away from his desk and closed his laptop lid. Any day now, now that he was recovering, John was going to ask Sherlock if he liked the gift he had sent. He was going to know something was up and he was instantly going to suspect him. He could tell this was something Sherlock wasn’t going to let go of. The way he felt about John this might even cause him to never speak to him again. Mycroft had always been irritated by Sherlock but even he didn’t want to drive him away for good. 

So... What to do? He sighed. He hated having to concede anything to his younger brother, especially when he was in the wrong. Being the magnanimous older benefactor who let the screaming toddler have his way was a much nicer position than the shame faced meddler admitting his mistake. Taking a breath, he rose from his chair. Sooner he did it the sooner it was done. He scooped up the package, asked Anthea to hold all his calls and called his driver. If he had to do this he was going to do it in comfort. 

 

“what do you want Mycroft?” his brother’s terse voice greeted him as soon as he opened the door. Damn him. Of all the things Sherlock had deleted he remembered the sound of Mycroft’s footsteps. Mycroft was pissed already and he hadn’t even got to the hard bit yet.   
“most people say Hello when somebody enters the room”  
“most people do not have you for a brother. My original question stands. Don’t test my patience I have far more pressing things on my mind”  
“Such as?”  
Sherlock turned a glare on him that had got far icier than he last used it on him for eating the last pudding cup. His brother was seething. Best not to provoke him further.   
“I’ve come to confess something” Mycroft sat down, not waiting for an invitation to do. He would not receive one so there was no point   
Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to make some biting remark but Mycroft continued on. “this is not easy for me to say so I would very much appreciate it if for once you could be a civil human being and allow me to finish before you do anything childish”  
Sherlock was displeased with his barbed request but remained silent.   
“my job in the cabinet comes with certain responsibilities, responsibilities added to and exacerbated by your frequent hare brained exploits. As such I have taken measures to ensure you are kept safe from yourself and that others are kept safe from you. These measures have, of late, included some surveillance that could be said to fall into a grey area, legality wise.”  
“you’ve been spying on me and now you are being held accountable? Really Mycroft I have no time for your plebeian problems...”  
“you promised you wouldn’t interrupt!” Mycroft replied, rather sharper than he meant to. Sherlock's eyes widened at this apparent lapse of control and Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling softly. “i have been keeping tabs on you since you moved out of the family home, this you know and begrudgingly deal with, though you take delight in sabotaging me at every opportunity. No, the matter I come to speak about is a far more recent one, involving your correspondence with that soldier friend of yours...”  
He paused, glancing over at his brother. Sherlock sat still, placid. Unmoved.   
“you’re forgetting to act surprised, Sherlock” Mycroft realized, with mounting annoyance that Sherlock was aware with his correspondence with John.   
Sherlock shrugged in that infernal nonchalant way he had. “You know, I know. It’s just tiresome and unnecessary melodrama to pretend anything else. Yes, Mycroft you have been talking with John. John has been talking to me about you and feeding you a mixture of falsity and verity regarding my “exploits”. Now, can we get past his rather sudden and out of character attack of morality and just go back to our respective lives where you spy on me and I try to pretend you don’t exist.”  
Mycroft, now far too irritated to be apologetic. “We could do that. I would gladly do so. It does not perturb me in the slightest if you never receive the package he sent.”  
This provoked an immediate and rather violent response. Sherlock lurched forward, all curled lip and clenched fists. He looked to be going for Mycroft’s throat, or at least his lapels when his hands stopped short inches away, clawed and white knuckled. This had Mycroft shaken but he tried not to show it.   
“what. Package.” if Sherlock was physiologically capable of breathing fire, Mycroft, the chair he sat in and the wall behind him would be charcoal. If Mycroft had been emotionally sensitive he would have perceived the shake in his hands, the panic twisting with confusion and delight in his eyes. But he was a Holmes so all he perceived was !threat!   
“he was acting as a hostile witness. As an over seas contact with military connections, access to weapons and confidential material he was a liability that had to be dealt with as such. It was correct procedure to confiscate and investigate any goods or transactions that occurred...”  
“John Watson is not a procedure, a code of conduct or an over seas trade agreement! He is my friend! He is a brave, wonderful loyal man who needed me and you had no right to interfere!” Sherlock’s whole body was locked like links in a chain. He had thrown himself forward into standing over Mycroft, spewing words over him in a hot angry mess.   
“I know! I understand that now! That’s why I brought you this!” Mycroft thrust the package out of his jacket and into SHerlock’s hands, pushing him back and leaping bodily out of his seat. Sherlock stumbled back looking in stunned silence at this thing in his hands. Mycroft used this to make his escape, pausing at the door only to say Ï’m truly sorry Sherlock. I didn’t understand” and left. 

 

As he heard Mycroft’s car drive away Sherlock resurfaced into reality. He flung himself down on the settee, all the while wrenching at the packaging around this bundle. When this proved to be of no avail he swore, tore the knife out of the mantle and slit the wrapping as a maniac would slit a throat. Now the contents were laid bare, his body slowed down, movements now reverent, careful, delicate. Slowly he pulled the bundle free, unfurling it and revealing it to be a shirt of sweeping purple silk. The black buttons glinting like ebony set in the fabric like rocks on a shoreline. He ran his hand over the hemline and his gaze over the stitches. This shirt was genuine silk, hand stitched. Probably paid for with Mycroft’s filthy money but given that it came from John it was beautiful. He shed his own light cotton pyjama top and slid it on. Wearing it was like feeling what John’s voice sounded like, untainted by Skype glitches. His heart panged and instinctively his hand moved to hold it. It was then he felt the lump in the pocket. His fingers found it to be folded paper, a note. He unfolded it and read. 

Dear Sherlock 

Here’s hoping this package gets to you safely. You never know what they flag at customs now days do you? 

Especially when your brother has them all by the throats, Sherlock thought bitterly 

I wanted to get you a gift as a token of friendship and this seemed to be the only appropriate thing. I hope you like it. I’m usually not very good at gift giving but I think i know you pretty well. Wear this and think of me Sherlock, just one little soldier who’s grateful to have a friend in you. 

Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was bile or tears coating his throat but he let out a strangled gasp he could not hold back. Hindsight, thou art a heartless bitch. 

That night Sherlock prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that John would be okay. Fervent half formed things, whispered into a pillowcase when sleep would not come. 

Dusky mountains set against a faded blue sky, like egg shell tissue paper left to fade in the sun. All set off by a touch of earthy gold dust that swirled ad infinitum. Yes John could get quite poetic out here in the Afghani outskirts. If only the Jeep would slow down so it would become more than smears of short sharp breathless colors. Ah well. His hand shakes too much to hold a pen anyway. 

How will he hold a scalpel? 

Steady on Watson. They won’t give you a scalpel just yet. You’ll start slow. You’ll get there. You just have to start. Focus on starting. 

He takes a snatched inhalation his lungs do not properly register, replaces the khaki canvas and ties it tight. Only the driver’s windows let the light in now, breaking up the olive drab dark. The road is bumpy and pocked. He knows this by the way he bounces and jars. He grips his bag tighter, not seeing the 5 other soldiers sitting there with him. He is calm. It is his heart that is panicking. He is okay. And if he’s not he will be. 

The vehicle shunts forward, the brake pads squeals and the car stops. The canvas is peeled back and the flap lowered. They all pile out. John clutches his bag in both hands and scrambles over the edge, cursing his short legs as he tumbles out.   
“You alright mate?”  
“Yeah, fine” he says distractedly. 

He’s back.   
He’s standing right there in the middle of the compound.   
There’s the loud speaker, the mess tent, the clerk’s office. All just as he left it. Something in his chest pangs and he thinks distantly of pleurisy. Good. His doctoring instincts are coming back. If slowly. He drags the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder and compels his legs to take him forward into his C.O’s office. Colonel Richter. He and the colonel have no knowledge of the other save what hearsay they’d each heard. None of it had been particularly positive concerning the colonel and John was fairly sure that since his “incident” the things said of him hadn’t been glowing reports either. This looked set to be uncomfortable. 

A tap on the door, a curt reply and he’s stepping through the door. The colonel looks up and the insignia on his beret flashes, as if on command. 

“First Lieutenant Watson reporting for re-assignment after leave of absence” John saluted crisply (with his right hand. His left lay clenched at his side), laid his papers down on the desk and stepped back 

“at ease Lieutenant. You’re making me uncomfortable”

John’s body had moved into parade rest before his mind really registered the order. It seemed while the doctor was still making a comeback the soldier had never really left. John wondered vaguely if he ever would. And when he started thinking of himself as two different people. Meanwhile the colonel was talking.   
“leave of absence? Not many people take their leave of absence in a psychiatric rehabilitation facility Watson.”

John bristled but remained calm.

“What were you in there for?”

what were you in for? He’d not been in prison. “Mental fatigue brought about by overwork. All under control now sir”

“you sure?? I can’t afford to have you back if I’m just going to lose you again. No lies Watson you’re a damn fine doctor, your record proves it but this is an army base not an...”

“I am perfectly confident of my ability to perform to standard sir” John was careful not to be terse. The man was just doing his job. He needed to know John would do his. 

“says you’re here on conditional placement. What the blazes does that mean?”

“It’s all laid out in the report sir. I’ll start out with minimal duties and work my way up to more intensive duties.”

“what exactly constitutes minimal duties?”

“I believe that is up to your professional discernment sir, though the report does lay out a suggestive framework”

The derisive snort the colonel gave showed exactly what he thought of the framework. John didn’t really appreciate that. He’d grown to respect Ella and to have her thoughtfully and carefully produced work rejected in this cackhanded manner did not sit well with him, not at all. Still he was polite to a fault so stayed silent. 

“Alright Watson, you’re dismissed. Go to your bunk and unpack. Despite all these damn constraints it’s good to have you back”

Funny. John didn’t feel all that missed. Nevertheless he promptly turned about face and left, glad to go. It was only as he was out in the courtyard that he realized he was unsure where his bunk actually was. Would he still be allowed to bunk with Stamford? He and Stamford weren’t the best of friends but he did hope to be his tent-mate. He was a good man and would provide some familiarity. Not seeing him anywhere he alighted on the next most familiar face. Christine Donovan. 

“Donovan!” 

She turned in confusion, expression souring briefly when alighting on his face. His gut clenched but he persevered, going up to her. 

“So you’re back then? Feeling better?” 

John smiled with a warmth he didn’t really feel but wanted to. “Yeah. Yeah I really am.”

She nodded stiffly, preventing him from saying more. “So you’ll be taking better care of yourself now yeah?” She sounded concerned in a spiky sort of way, like a disapproving aunty.

“Definitely. Sleeping, eating...”

“Being more careful who you correspond with?”

A shred of silence caught in John’s throat before he managed to curl his tongue into a reply “Excuse me?” 

“All I’m saying is I think this has taught you a lesson about the people you let influence you. When you’re in places like this you need stable support not the blathering of a sociopath”

Foolish and furious became bosom kin in John’s chest. Foolish for turning to someone like Donovan. Furious because she actually believed Sherlock, his best friend in the world, had driven him to a breakdown. Based on no evidence other the hearsay of a sister an ocean and lifetime of experiences away. 

“Do you ever think before you speak or does your sister send you scripts in the mail?” is what he says aloud. What he wants to say would register as conduct unbecoming an officer.

She looks shocked and offended but he’s past registering these as valid barriers to expressing himself. 

“my problems were ones of my own making and through out it Sherlock has been nothing but supportive. If I had of listened to his advice in the first place I probably could have prevented this whole thing. It was mostly due to his support I’m even back here though god knows he’d rather I wasn’t. How dare you speak to me as if you’re this all knowing prophet, pronouncing doom over the lives of people you don’t even know.”

“I was trying to help!”

“if that’s the kind of help you have to offer I’m not going to listen to any more of it. Goodbye Donovan”

He knows he is supposed to feel righteous and vindicated at this display of strength he has shown. But he doesn’t. He feels relieved that it didn’t shatter him, angry that it even had to happen. He feels as a nerve does when it is mistaken for ingrown hair. Raw. His body and soul are shaking in two different ways with all this motion and velocity how is he not yet airborne? Yes, sadly, yes John Watson could get very poetic here in the Afghani outskirts.


	18. John's recovery

With the peace that came with reaching a final decision John set his stuff down on his old bunk. It didn’t look as if anyone had moved in in his absence and if they had it could be sorted out in the morning. Right now he had not the energy to care. He unpacked only the bare essentials, kicked off his boots and laid down to rest. 

He woke to find Mike standing over him, face bearing the look the feral dogs round here got when cornered by their Jeeps headlamps.  
“Morning.” the word tripped out of him like he was coughing up residual politeness caught in his throat. It clangs to the floor like a dying thing. Nevertheless because he too is British and dutiful John sits up and replies.  
“Morning Stamford. Did you sleep well?”  
“I haven’t slept yet. I just got back from a stint at a Paramedical outpost. When did you get back?”  
Oh, so he had noticed he had left. There’s something. Sort of.  
“Just yesterday.”  
“oh. Cool”  
The air lies thick in dead, thrumming in their ears until John just comes right out and says it. “If you don’t want to bunk with me any more I’ll request to be rehoused.”  
Finally Mike’s expression shifts. But not into the guilty relief John was anticipating.  
“Me not room with You? I thought you didn’t want to room with me!”  
John’s head tilts back of it’s own accord, at least a little thrown by this reply “Why would you think that? That doesn’t even make sense!”  
“well, you know because of.....” Poor Mike. Talking about feelings made his tongue two sizes too big for his face. “because I was so oblivious to you when you were having your... Trouble”  
It’s probably rude and most definitely inappropriate to the situation but John laughs. A deep, coarse, goose honk of a laugh. Mike’s confused but he can’t help but snigger awkwardly along.  
“You’re such a pillock! My “trouble”? You make me sound liked a knocked up teenager in a catholic boarding school!” he’s actually wheezing now, his lungs so unused as they are to having a good politically incorrect, irreverent but bloody satisfying giggle. Now Mike’s laughing along properly, two school boys sharing a joke. When it subsides they both wipe their eyes and clap each other on the back.  
“Ahh. No, Mike I lay no blame at your door for my “troubles”. It isn’t up to you to baby sit me. The reason I hoped to still bunk with you is because I knew you could be relied upon not to fuss over me.”  
Now he is relieved and it’s untainted by guilt. Even better.  
“C’mon mate, lets go get some food.”

Pretending not to notice the staring was a lot easier now that he had Mike to talk to. It even made the food taste a little better. Or at least it took the edge off. John was quickly made up to date with all that had gone on while he’d been “away”. A new incubator and medical supplies. Certain people getting promoted and others getting a dressing down. Who was hooking up behind the shower tent. Simple banality that made John feel a little more human, a little more ordinary. A beige plaster over a red raw wound. It’s not the balm he finds with Sherlock, who is a shot of adrenaline after an attack of anaphylaxis , rather it’s a cup of tea after walking home in the rain. 

Mike was on call in post op after lunch so John had a bit of time for himself. He spent it unpacking. More than sleeping in his old bunk, more than eating in the mess tent, this felt like coming home. Putting his fatigues in his foot locker. Putting his notebooks and stationary on his desk. Putting his boots in a neat line by the door. Making it really his again. 

 

When he was all unpacked he went to see if he could be of any help in post-op. He was about to ask someone if there was anything needing doing when he noticed the way everyone was giving him sidelong glances. Breathing hard out his nose he decided just to get stuck in. No one was going to take him seriously until he showed them he was still capable. So he did all the menial work. Helped one of the the newly transferred nurses who didn’t know him yet. Did a supply stock take without being asked. Signed off on some minor evacuee reports. Changed a few morphine drips, chatted with the more jittery patients. It was a very calm day, the kind of day the old John would have called hum-drum, boring. Today John called it a “beginning” 

Like he promised he would, he finished when the shift finished. He ate dinner. He showered. Normal self care things. He got back to his bunk to find and express envelope propped up on his bed. Sherlock. John’s heart was a mishandled piano, a violin in the hands of a novice. He couldn’t make sense of it’s panging. He wanted Sherlock to get in touch. He was a friend. Yet at the same time he feared what he might say. Sherlock knew more of all this than anyone in camp. Sherlock, the raw the real, when he was just trying to slot back into everyday. Feeling oddly clenched, John picked up the envelope. Than he set it down again, rustling around for a letter opener. It wasn’t a particularly nice envelope and he ripped envelopes up before but suddenly he needed something else to do with his hands rather than touch that letter. He did want to read it, but not with jitter hands. Only when he’d found it and he made the first slit did he realize what he was doing. Making an incision. A clean straight easy incision. He grinned to himself. It wasn’t everything. But it was something. 

Dear John 

I don’t know what to say. You asked me to get in touch so I’m writing this, despite not having reached a conclusion re my thoughts on this matter. 

Of course I wanted you to get better. In fact that is my continued wish for you John. I want you to get better and better, mentally physically, as a soldier and a doctor. But at the same time I never wanted you to hurt again. I wanted you safe. I know you’re not on the front lines. The thought that you could die before I ever meet you is one that haunts my infrequent slumber making it rarer still. Oh, no don’t blame yourself John. I admire you for your work I really do. It is work I understand if not the sentiment behind it, though my understanding of that grows more and more as I converse with you. You make me tender in ways that terrify me John Watson and If I could have but one wish, for once in my life it would not be for more interesting cases or to be an only child. It would be to end the Afghani conflict. So you were no longer bound there. I don’t know what I would do with you as a friend by my side but I know it would be better than this. 

I have reached a conclusion. I want you safe John. But I want you as you, with all your honour, heroism, brokenness and feelings of duty. So soldier on John Watson and as much as you can, stay safe. 

Sherlock Holmes. 

P.S. I got your gift. Thank you very much. Next to blue, purple is my favourite colour.  
It’s very dramatic. Fits very well in crime scenes. 

“Oh John sit still would you! You’re going to make me smudge it!”  
John sighed, fighting not to screw up his face as Charlotte came at him again.  
“Who’s silly idea was it to integrate the genders, that’s what I wanna know.”  
“You’ve got a sister, you must have had your make-up done before”  
“Yes and I vowed never again. Your incessant whining has made me break a vow that’s at least a decade old.”  
“C’mon John! Little silly things like this are good for morale”  
Mike did have a point and John had agreed to do this. He sighed again, more in amusement now than irritation, resigning himself to sitting still as Charlotte tickled his cheek with a brush. Make up felt kind of nice.  
“Ouch!” he flinched away as Julia prodded his eye with a mascara wand. Well some make-up felt nice.  
“Sorry” Julia was a lovely girl. Quiet, clumsy but lovely.  
”You’ve got lovely colouring John” Charlotte was saying “Soft blonde and a deep tan. what I wouldn’t give for some liquid gold eye-liner.”  
“Don’t you dare! I hate eye-liner. It’s not natural sticking a pencil in your eyelids.”  
“you don’t stick it in your eye...”  
“You do!”  
The others giggled. Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You are such a boy John Watson”  
“Yeah, I’m not sure I have as much faith in that fact as I used to” Mike smirked.  
John was about to reply but Bethany beat him to it. “Just because you’re not manly enough to pull off the desert look doesn’t mean you have to bring John down”  
“Yeah John don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous that he’s too pale for any of the really sexy colours”  
Mike scoffed to hide his blush and John waggled his eyebrows like the lothario he so wasn’t.  
“Yeah, yeah whatever.”  
“Don’t you worry Mike. I’m sure they’ve got something for you” John suggested.  
Mike paled watching how the girl’s eyes lit up “No, no you can’t. I’m, uh, I’m very allergic! I break out in a rash. A huge oozing rash”  
“Don’t be disgusting! And calm down. You look like we’re about to jump you and ran lipstick down your throat.”  
John giggled, which was very difficult when you were trying to keep still.  
“Almost done. Just a spot of something on your lips.”  
“No...”  
“Oh please!”  
John stifled a sign and acquiesced, pouting beautifully when asked. The girls all shrieked with laughter while Mike snickered and nudged him.  
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m gorgeous, I know.”  
Someone handed John a mirror and he couldn’t help but break out in a grin. “Thanks girls. I look...”  
Whatever acerbic comment he meant to make was smothered by the boot thuds of Christine Donovan barrelling into the tent.  
“We’ve got a woman in labour and she’s bleeding...”  
John was on his feet “Haemorrhaging?”  
“Seems to be. And she’s been leaking fluid since she came in.”  
the whole crew was on their feet now, pouring out into the compound. John was the first to get to her and immediately began assessment. The woman was peaky and seemed to be in too much pain for the first stages of labour.  
“Does she speak English?”  
“I don’t think so. Since she’s been here she’s been speaking only Pashto”  
“Does she have any family with her?”  
“Her brother and mother but they’re much the same.”  
“Grab Abram”  
Donovan complied and their translator hurried into pre-op.  
“Ask her when she started to feel something was wrong”  
Abram relayed the message before turning back to John “she says this morning or late last night.”  
John slipped his stethoscope into his ears and listened around for the foetal heartbeat. Baby didn’t seem to be moving but the heart beat was there.  
“is this her first baby?”  
Abram asked, then shook his head “Her third”  
“does she feel nauseous or light headed? Has she thrown up at all today?”  
“Yes a little on the ambulance ride in. She has been feeling sick all day”  
John palpitated the woman’s stomach and she winced.  
“Looks to be a placental abruption. Mike do a blood test and then prep transfusions.”  
Mike, in serious doctor mode now, nodded and drew the kit from his bag.  
“Donovan, see what you can do about the vaginal bleeding. If she’s experiencing disseminated intra-vascular coagulation she could go into hypovolemic shock or her kidneys could fail”  
The woman gasped as another contraction rocked her body.  
“John, her membrane’s ruptured”  
Fighting to stay calm he turned to the nurses. “Prep the OR for an emergency C section. If the placenta has separated this baby is becoming rapidly deprived of oxygen. Abram, explain what’s about to happen and keep her calm. The last thing we need is for her blood pressure to spike.”  
As he assisted Mike in finding a vein for transfusions, John watched the emotions play across the woman’s face. First confusion, then fear fragmented into panic then the one he was hoping for. She pursed her lips and steel glinted in her eyes. John had seen this look before. This was the face of a woman determined to save her child. If everyone did their jobs, this was going to turn out alright.  
“John are you sure you should be working on this?”  
“Bethany I am a doctor. This woman is a patient. I have assessed her and prepped her for treatment. Do you disagree with my diagnosis?”  
“No..”  
“Do I seem to be stressed or out of my depth in any way?”  
“No...”  
“Then I think that the best thing for all involved is to help this woman safely deliver a baby. Don’t you agree?”  
“Yes Doctor. Just checking.”  
“And I am grateful but now is not the time. Get her under! Mike scrub up, you’re going to assist me. Someone monitor her vitals.”

In no time John was scrubbed, donning gown, mask and gloves. A few tests revealed that the local anaesthetic had taken effect so he set to work.


	19. The shine distracts me from the dark

4 hours later 

John and his team had delivered a beautiful baby girl. Well, she was beautiful once all the vernix, meconium, fluid, blood and gore had been cleaned away. Baby, now healthy and pink instead of sporadic bluish purple, was on Mum’s chest. Mother resting and receiving transfusions. Blood flow stemmed and safe. Placenta removed intact. Sutures holding well. All had gone exactly to plan. 

John’s hands shook as he scrubbed off and he felt more tired than he ought to. He was a little ashamed to admit, he had to let Mike assist heavily, especially during the first incision. But that all changed when he’d seen that baby, enfolded in the caul of the amniotic sack. Doctor John took over from there. And though he was bloody exhausted, he was also bloody proud. He was peeling off his gloves when Abram appeared behind him, jigging nervously. 

“What is it Abram?”  
“Urm, the woman wants to thank you, um for delivering her baby safely.”  
“Oh!” John smiled, yanking the last bit of the glove off and washing his hands. “how lovely” he moved to go into post op but Abram stopped him. “no, she thinks that you’re... She thinks you... She’s a bit confused.”  
“What do you mean? What did she say?”  
Abram reddened “she asked if she could uh, thank the “lady boy” who delivered her baby.”  
John choked in shock and Abram reddened even further. “She says she didn’t know that you were allowed to be doctors but she’s very grateful”  
there was a beat of fraught silence. Abram stared at John. John stared at Abram.   
As if pushed from behind, John lurched, snapping forward from the waist. He was racked with a wheezing, spluttering gushing, serious danger of pissing your pants laughter. Abram stood by stunned.   
“I, I’d, I had... Oh my lord, I had forgotten... I’d forgotten about the make up”  
he burst into peals of laughter again.   
“Oh goodness, she’s out there waiting, wondering why we’re so hysterical. Pull yourself together, John” he cleared his throat, a few last sniggers leaking out before he calmed and strode out into post op, Abram following nervously behind. 

 

The click clack of the mail slot took Sherlock by surprise. He put the syringe of cyanide down and covered the liver over in it’s petri dish. No need to pack it all away only to discover it was a bank statement or begging letter from some obscure charity. His day perked up considerably when he discovered that oh so familiar brown envelope, this time slapped with a big blue “express” sticker. He’d never got anything from John express before. The envelope felt a little lighter than usual. He opened it right there on the stairs to find a sticky note attached to a polaroid picture. The note read “Bit busy here sorry. Just a line to let you know I’m doing well.”   
Sherlock’s eyebrow found his hairline, quirked in confused concern. He turned it over and had to look it over a few times before he fully understood what it was. He grinned, making room to pin it on the notice board. It was John, holding a newly swaddled baby and grinning up into the camera. The flash of the camera really accentuated the sheen on his lips and the sparkle of his eye shadow.   
\---------------------------------------  
Still laughing, John fended the camera and it’s owner away.   
“I really have to get out of these scrubs and see to the after care, Mike.”  
Mike sobered and put his toy away. He was a medical professional in a medical establishment, not a kid in a candy store. John smirked, picking up the gloves and mask he’d tossed aside to hold baby and putting them in the wash where they belonged, his cap and gown following quickly behind. 

The water tinged pink as blood leached out. John quickly turned away. What was he doing? Scrubbing down. Yes, he was scrubbing down that’s what he was supposed to be doing. He lathered up his hands and scrubbed. Thanks to his gloves his hands weren’t dirty, just covered in powder. He scrubbed. There was no blood on his hands. He scrubbed. His hands weren’t shaking. He scrubbed. The soap slipped from his hands and clattered into the sink. He grabbed at the basin, slick fingers clawing at its edge. Gagging then coughing then finally breathing until his head calmed down.   
“You alright Watson?” Julia came over and laid her hand on his shoulder.   
His stomach tightened and he pulled away. “Yeah I’m good” he seized a towel and wet it, wiping at his face in an effort to give his hands something to do and his eyes somewhere to focus. “all good yeah. I’m fine. I’m just gonna go get cleaned up”  
“Oh okay” she drew her hands to her sides, watching him leave. 

The make-up was a good excuse for shower. Ella would ask him if he’d been sticking to his self care routine and a shower was a good start. John always did his homework. Always. He shampooed and shaved, even brushing his teeth. His hands worked empty gestures while his mind clutched at the steam, blank and foggy. When he stepped out, got himself dried and dressed, only then did he notice he’d missed several patches of stubble and even had a thin slice on his neck. It was probably bleeding. He didn’t touch it. The thought of blood on his hands...

He was exhausted. He hadn’t been before but now he was. He swiped at the stupid cut with his towel and hurried himself of to bed, grateful for his growing lethargy. He’d brought life into the world, showered and now slept. He was a normal doctor. 

That shaking should be looked into. It was probably psychosomatic, indicative of extreme stress but it could be something deeper. And an aversion to blood was no good for a surgeon. This tiredness wasn’t natural was it? 

Medical explanations for tremors of the hand   
Certain medicines - ruled out he wasn’t on medication  
Brain, nerve, or movement disorders, including uncontrolled muscle movements (dystonia)  
Brain tumor - unlikely   
Excessive alcohol consumption, alcoholism, or alcohol withdrawal - ruled out   
Multiple sclerosis - unlikely   
Muscle tiredness or weakness - possible, he did feel lethargic   
Normal ageing - ruled out he was only in his thirties   
Overactive thyroid - possible   
Parkinson's disease - possible   
Stress, anxiety, or fatigue (can cause a postural tremor) - probable   
Stroke - unlikely   
Too much coffee or other caffeinated drink - possible he had been throwing back the camp “coffee”lately   
Most probable diagnosis - stress related fatigue.  
Treatment plan - immediate rest   
See he was a normal doctor. A good doctor. One who brought life. 

 

Sherlock’s brief moment of joy was soon and irrevocably marred. The doorbell rang. His face fell into a grimace and he stomped down the stairs. It better not be a salesman. It wasn’t. It was Mycroft. Now Sherlock wished fervently for a salesman. 

“Good morning Brother”  
Sherlock grunted “It was”

Mycroft shook his head in that condescending way he loved and Sherlock hated.

“Is that any way to speak to someone who has just favoured you with an immense boon?”

This did not improve Sherlock’s mood but he let Mycroft in nonetheless. After all as he had so ingratiatingly pointed out, he was the one who had ensured he could contact John when needed. So for that reason, and that reason alone, he stepped back and allowed his brother free entry into his flat. This was becoming a disgusting familiar scenario 

Mycroft took a seat on the only clear space. Sherlock’s favourite. Instantly this had Sherlock’s hackles up but he smothered them, perching instead on the settee next to a mess of dissection diagrams. 

“whatever you came to say Mycroft you had better say it quickly. My patience is wearing thin.”

“due to recent events it has come to light that we have both been corresponding, in different forms, with a certain John Watson. You convinced him to lie to me which was inappropriate of you. I meddled in your friendship and withheld property that was not mine to withhold. We need to find a way to move forward with this”

Sherlock smirked “how about this? I accept your apology and you stay out of my life”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Sherlock I cannot allow that. John as an overseas contact is inappropriate for someone in your position”

“No John is an inappropriate contact for someone in your position. For a consulting detective he provides a very useful non-lethal contact. Moreover John is not just a contact. He is a friend and I’m sorry if you don’t understand that but the fact remains. John is someone that is only mine and none of your business.”

Mycroft was about to speak again when Sherlock interrupted him “do you honestly think John would ever send me contraband of any kind? He wouldn’t do it as a friend, it would violate his code of ethics as a doctor and would result in a dishonourable discharge from the military something John would never abide. I know you know little of him Mycroft but honestly you don’t use the sense you were born with sometimes.”

Mycroft’s mouth was hard pinched line but he had no comeback


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft shook his head. When did Sherlock become so reasoned and logical? This bitter pill would not go down without some easement. He took a steadying breath and mentally detached himself.   
“From a moral standpoint all of the points you make are valid. But from a governmental standpoint and from a legal standpoint this cannot stand. I will however take your feeling into consideration. Your correspondence with John will be put on the lowest priority of surveillance. Letters will not be read but will be periodically run through an unmanned computer program to look for danger words. Parcels will go through the normal level of monitoring scanned and run through drug dogs but no more. Other than that you will be completely left alone. How does this compromise sit with you?”  
Sherlock could barely keep himself from the soppy grin bubbling up inside. His friendship with John was valid. The boundaries he put in place around it were worth respecting and Mycroft was treating him like a grown up. Throw in a high stakes jewellery heist and it was Christmas and two birthdays at once. He forced nonchalance into his face   
“I suppose those terms are agreeable. Is that all you came to discuss Mycroft?”  
Mycroft was about to reply when a flash of colour caught his eye and he screwed up his face, clearly confused. Sherlock turned to follow his gaze and connected it right to John’s recently sent photograph.   
“Uhhh... Sherlock? Have I misunderstood the nature of your relationship with John?”  
Sherlock scoffed. To think he had just been mentally congratulating Mycroft for his soundness of mind.   
“Honestly Mycroft it was a little harmless soldier’s prank to up morale. It is no comment at all on John’s sexuality or gender identity.”  
“whatever you say Sherlock” Mycroft the way only oldest children can, hooking his umbrella on the crook of his arm “Goodbye Sherlock”   
He was gone before Sherlock had decided which completely immature remark was the best so he had the last word. Damn him. 

“John your shrink is here.” Christine said, voice thick with oily smarm.   
Without turning, John flicked her the V.   
“well that’s nice. You come all the way out to see someone and this is the thanks you get” Ella said mildly, walking in the door.   
“Christ Ella! Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were... someone else.”  
“Evidently”  
“Please, um, take a seat” John hurried to clear a space for her, jamming things away under his bunk.   
“So apart from keeping a tidy living space, I trust you are attending to appropriate self care routines?”  
John nodded quickly, feeling oddly nervous, like this was a job interview not a health check up. “I’ve been resting when I feel tired, showering when I’m dirty all those important things” John hated this. Only the knowledge of where he had been kept him here. Discussing his ablutions like a little kid come home from summer camp.   
“Been eating regularly and healthily?”   
John squirmed a little in his seat, flicking his eyes up and down. God, she had an actual check-list and everything!   
“Well see the thing is...”  
Boom, with the “critical but patient mum eyes”.   
“...the thing is, the food here is kind of, nasty”  
“So how often do you actually eat in a week?”  
John forced air out pursed lips and thought for a moment. “it’s not my top priority...”  
Ella sat silent, waiting for an answer to her question   
“this week I’ve eaten at least once most days...”  
“Sorry John, but I can’t give you a satisfactory mark for that kind of behaviour. Two more reports like this and we’ll have to step up your level care.”  
“It’s just absent mindedness. Easy to fix.” John said quickly.   
“I’m not threatening you John. You’re actually doing very well for someone at the level you are.”  
With his hand to the nape of his neck, John dug in his thumb. His thanks was genuine if half hearted. 

Eating was the very first thing he did when she left because he couldn’t resist not doing things he thought he ought to. He wasn’t really concentrating which was probably just as well for him, considering. He had thought he had grown out of day dreaming. What John’s heart had never told and never would tell his brain is deep in his grain he was a dreamer. An idealist, if an eminently practical one. He would have fallen further into this rabbit hole if it weren’t for Colonel Richter who plunked himself down in front of him.   
“Morning Watson.”  
John started and actually for a moment moved to salute. The Colonel chuckled, not altogether kindly.   
“At ease there, lieutenant. Didn’t mean to jar you out of your wool gathering, but I actually had something I wanted to discuss with you.”  
“Of course.” John put his cutlery together on his plate and set it aside, giving his commanding officer his full attention and ignoring the strange feeling in the pit of his gut.   
“I heard how you handled that emergency birth a few days ago. I thought you were supposed to be taking things easy....”  
“I know sir, I just...”  
“Let me finish boy, let me finish.”  
John drew his lips together. He knew that Richter was senior in more ways then one but John was hardly a “boy”. Maternal worrying he could cope with and even respect. Patriarchal condescension was another thing entirely.   
“I think it’s the best thing you could do considering. Throw yourself back into your work Johnny” Richter did not notice how John flinched at the use of that o so hated moniker so ploughed steadily on. “can’t have you resting on your laurels. It’s bad for discipline and you’re likely to think yourself to distraction.” Richter was an action man who had a dim view of deep thinking.   
“I don’t intend to “rest on my laurels” sir. I’m no layabout.” John half-wondered what Ella would think of all this.   
“Good man. I’m glad you see the sense of it.”  
John hoped Richter didn’t see him clenching his fist. It wasn’t aggression he as merely trying to smother his worsening tremor.   
“You’re no space cadet Watson, you’re a good hard soldier and it’s time people started treating you like one. That’s why I’ve assigned you to this latest mission.”   
John looked up at him, frozen.   
Angry.  
Cold.  
Sick.   
Stuck.   
Shocked.   
\----------------------------------------------------------  
It was a direct order. Despite all Ella’s reports and mandates compared to the power his CO wielded they were just so much suggestion. He was an experienced and qualified soldier who had judged John to be battle fit. What John or anybody else thought didn’t factor into the equation. He was to be at the briefing at 1600 hours or face the martial charge of disobeying orders. His mind, without even asking first, flashed back to that morning on the truck, driving back into the compound. 

Unwanted flashbacks that occur because of a triggering sensation or experience is a classic sign of post traumatic stress disorder 

Wondering if he could ever fit back in again. Hoping he could but praying for home in the same breath. He recalled that disquieting feeling that “soldier John” had never really left. Would he protect him now? 

C’mon Watson you’re trained for this. Every training report you ever got said “competent and capable”. This is why you’re here. 

John was making a concious effort to breathe. He pushed his panic inwards, buried it under deep breaths and running through field procedures in his head. Even so, he found himself compulsively checking the clock. Time seemed to be cut off at the knees. 4:00 would never get here. 

 

But sure enough, it rolled around right on schedule. Like the good obedient soldier John was/is/used to be/wants to be, he was standing at the CO’s desk waiting for him to come through the door. When he does John salutes along with the four others who’ve been wrangled into this. Richter orders them to their ease and outlines their mission. They’re on a stealth expedition to oversee the set up of a new paramedical outpost just in the outskirts of Kandahar. They shouldn’t come across enemy engagement but it is always a possibility. The four others who are not familiar to John will be on protection, scout and guard duty whilst John will act as medical consultant and emergency paramedic should the need arise. They are given their particulars and the debriefing is drawn to a close. They leave at 0500 tomorrow. 

 

It was still dark when John’s alarm woke him. It wouldn’t be light for another hour but he knew it was best to make the most out of darkness while you had it. He laced his boots, having slept in his fatigues to save time. Ignoring Mike’s grumbling and turning over (lucky bastard) he gathered his things and hurried out to the rendezvous point. 

His guard squad is waiting for them when he gets there. Christ, did they sleep here or something?   
“Pull the Jeep around then, Sam”  
“Yeah, go on then, crow”  
Sam, though griping about being called “crow”, went and got the Jeep.   
John swallowed nervously. Great, first mission since he got back and he got a bloody new recruit in his guard squad. He was pulled out of this growing panic when he realized they were now talking to him.   
“Hey, Doc, where’s your red cross?”  
shit. His arm band. Had he left it on his bunk, no, no wait it was here in his bag. He fished it out and waved it, smiling wanly. He shoved it up his arm until it stayed in place. His throat tight, he quickly rifled through his bag, checking all the rest of his equipment was accounted for. If he had forgotten something as basic as his arm band there was no telling what else could slip his mind. So much for the stone cold soldier façade. 

Sam pulled round with the Jeep and they all piled in, moaning and groaning. John was wedged in the middle with two guards on either side, rifles in hand. John put his hand to his hip and achieved some small relief. He had not forgotten his gun. 

Being surrounded by such protection did nothing to alleviate his nerves. In fact it both annoyed him and panicked him further. Annoyed because he wasn’t some green root civilian who needed baby sitting and panicked because Richter had thought this level of protection necessary. They were clearly not just on some Sunday drive. 

“Clacky?” the woman on his right held out a ration of Hershey bar, smiling as though not heavily armed. “swapped it with one of the American lot”  
“No thanks” John’s smile was warm and friendly, at least on the surface.   
“Suit yourself” and silence fell again. 

The action of driving down dirt roads was a familiar one which helped John achieve some sense of calm. Not warm, happy, safe calm but its colder cousin, more akin with the sense of “its going to happen anyway, may as well get on with it”. The calm was made even colder by the chilling morning dark. It sat over their little car like bloodless fingers, a fist not quite closed. 

 

Dust 

“Newbies always forget the pucker factor”

Flash! 

“It all seems quiet. Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

Hot sand. Hot, blood, blood hot sand.

Puck. Puck. Puck. The ground puckers under gun shot puncture. 

Fire blooms in his shoulder. This is final confirmation he is not stone. 

HELP ME!!!!! I CAN’T SCREAM!!!!  
Frozen to the ground – paralyzed, can’t breathe  
It is all quiet when the ugly blades cut the sky. The rescue helicopter scoops him up like lost property and stash him away. His comrades are silent, bleeding too. 

 

In his sleep, his rare snatch of sleep, Sherlock does not know he is mouthing, whispering.   
“Wake up. John, wake up.”  
He does not know. 

\-----------------------------

Dear Sherlock   
It’s not fair. It’s just not fair. Not a single shred of my reality is fair at this present moment but, that’s the way it is. Yesterday, for the first time ever, I was wounded in action. Don’t worry, I'm okay. Alive and on the mend like a good little soldier. 

Sorry if this is a little hard to read. I’m writing with my wrong hand by the light of the hallway and it’s not very good. Then again, you probably deduced as much. Anyway, here’s the story. 

Taliban bastard shot me in the back of the left shoulder while I was evacuating the wounded out of a hospital that had been bombed. Came up behind me and fired before I could fully turn around or get my side arm out. Such was the amount of blood I lost they didn't have time to dig the damn thing out, just stitch me back up again. So now I'm left with a bullet in my back, a god-awful scar and a promotion to captain. That’s right; because I got shot at I got promoted. Thousands of us are getting shot at every freaking day but because I survived, and the media’s desperate for war heroes to make this whole blood bath look justifiable, I get promoted and a write up to HQ.. It’s actually disgusting but there’s nothing I can do about it. But I will tell you this Sherlock. I am going to earn this promotion. Even if those who promoted me don’t see the importance of it, I do. I'm going to work and work until I really am a captain. And I'm not going to “pull rank” as they say until then. Not until I actually have the manhood to back it up. Don’t worry, I’m not going to run myself into the ground again, not after the telling off you gave me last time. Besides I don’t have the strength at this present time and everyone’s treating me like I’m made of glass. Well, I'm supposed to be resting and the nurse is coming round now, probably to tell me off. I don’t want to hear another complaint about how doctors make the worst patients. 

Goodnight Sherlock Holmes. 

Still Alive,   
John Watson


	21. Feelings are such bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is angry, though he doesn't know at whom, and Lestrade has to deal with the fallout. Sorry about short chapter but I have these little things called university assignments. What are you gonna do?

“You know the drill John. Lie back and breathe deep”  
John did know the drill. That was the problem. He knew exactly how they were going to cut him up, put their hands inside his body. He knew intimately the risks. He also knew it must be done. So he did lie back and breathe deep. Thus he did not know about Sherlock’s call 

\------------------

It was extremely jarring to be in a room of complete, comfortable silence and then have your pocket jingle and violently buzz. Color surged into Mycroft’s cheeks as he nearly ran out of the room under the irritated glares of his fellow members. He swore softly and fished the blasted thing out. It was Sherlock. Of course. Mycroft was convinced to this day that somehow Sherlock had set his phone up to make his ring constantly at top volume, whatever setting Mycroft had it on. 

“This had better be good Sherlock. You have just embarrassed me in front of the whole Diogenes club”  
Sherlock did not reply, instead Mycroft listened as he made a broken, choking sound in his throat, a wet gasp and shaky breath.   
“Sherlock? What’s happened?”  
“My... Myc... Can I... Can I come by your office?”  
“Of course Sherlock. What do you need?”  
“Your computer. I need to contact John.”  
Mycroft did not question whether it would not be better for Sherlock to write a letter. It was clear, even to one as avoidant of emotions as he was, that this was quite beyond a letter. He soothed his brother as best he could and got out the phone. As soon as he was done with that call he swiftly made another.   
“Hello?”  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade? Mycroft here. Yes, Sherlock’s older brother. I have a feeling that my brother may be in need of your company at this present time. No I can give no more details. Yes it is urgent. Thank you.”

“Lestrade, you can’t leave, your shifts not over...”  
“Family emergency Anderson. I’ll fill out the absence explanation form later but now I really got to go.”  
Greg snatched up his coat and pushed past him. “Baker street please and hurry”

Greg had no idea what he was expecting when he got into Sherlock’s flat but it sure wasn’t to hear smothered weeping coming from the bathroom. Instinctively, intuitively he softened and slowed his movements, jumping from Greg the action man to Greg the friend.   
“Sherlock?”  
“ Strade?” the jerk of a tap being turned on was swiftly followed by the sound of running water. “What are you doing here?”  
Like a man approaching a caged animal Lestrade drew closer “Your brother rang me. Said you might do with a visit”  
“Of course he did. I can’t even... (splashing sounds as a fist strikes a sink full of water)...ask him for a simple favour and he’s sending my keepers round.”  
“I don’t think it’s like that Sherlock. He sounded worried..”  
“Him worried? Why should he be worried? It’s not his friend.....(water rushes down the plughole)...lying in a hospital somewhere...(tap is violently turned off)...probably contracting septicaemia or losing the function of his arm, or bleeding to death on the surgery table....”  
Lestrade lurched forward and threw the door open “What are you talking about Sherlock?”  
Despite Sherlock’s best efforts, he had not washed the crying out of his eyes. In fact the look was exacerbated by his frantic scrubbing. Through these raw and red eyes he glared weakly at Greg. 

“John. Who else? Who else would have a nervous breakdown and then go into a warzone only a few weeks later?   
“Sherlock’s it’s been a month...”  
“who else has to prove himself to the whole damn world so much so that his own safety doesn’t matter?”  
“That sounds an awful lot like you, Sherlock...”  
“I’M NOT THE ONE WHO LET HIMSELF GET SHOT! HE KNOWS HE’S IMPORTANT TO ME AND HE GOES AND DOES THIS!” Sherlock yanked a letter out of his pocket and hurls it at the wall, frustrated that it stops short and float impotently to the ground.   
“Sherlock, that doesn’t make any sense”  
Something in the atmosphere calcifies and suddenly cold creeps up Lestrade’s nerve endings. Sherlock’s glare is weak no longer.   
“Don’t... You think... I know that! This is just like before! It was supposed to be getting better. John understood... He was going to change. I know it’s not his fault he’s hurt, I’m not a moron....”  
“No one said you were...”  
Sherlock wasn’t listening. This was not a conversation anymore. He had fallen into a rant and could hear nothing else but the thoughts churning in his head.   
“I know these feelings don’t make any sense but they won’t stop and John needs to make them, he can make them stop, but he’s... He’s wounded and he could be dying and he’s too far away.... He’s trained, he’s better than this, why didn’t he protect himself? He’s so stupid!” those last words caught like fingers in hair, painful in their weight. Sherlock fell silent, hand over his mouth, looking for all the world like John was standing in front of him, deeply upset. As it was, it was only Lestrade, hurrying closer.   
“He’s not stupid!” Sherlock said frantically “This is stupid, i;m stupid for saying that...”  
“SHERLOCK!” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s arms , stopping just short of actually shaking him. Sherlock’s eyes meet his, glazed over and panicked. Lestrade’s voice took on the tone he used with his children.   
“No one is stupid alright? Not you or John. You’ve got to stop labelling your feelings as weaknesses. Your feelings don’t have t make sense to be valid Sherlock”  
Despite himself, Sherlock smirked “You got that out of a book”  
“Everyone got that out a book, doesn’t make it any less true. You can learn a lot of good things from books.”


	22. The boys struggle

Dear John 

You may recognize this is not my hand writing. That is because I am getting Lestrade to write this. It pains me to admit this to you but I’m not in a condition to sit down and write to you at the moment... 

“Sherlock, you can’t say that. He’ll think you were in a horrific accident!” 

"No, you’re right, the last thing John need is to be worrying about my well being at a time like this. Start again, phrase it differently.” 

After reveling for a moment in the words “you’re right” and then muttering “I’m a detective not a secretary” he scrunched the paper up and began again. 

But I’m worried I may not be able to get through this. I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you are still alive yet so worried you are still in a combat zone. It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, and it’s not that I don’t think you’ll be okay...

“Why can’t you just say it?”

“Excuse me?” 

“You are obviously dancing around something here, something important. Just say it”

Sherlock gaped at him for a moment, lost. 

“Use that big brain of yours and think. What do you want to say?”

..........................................................................................................................

John’s eyelids fluttered open. He stirred, murmured and opened his eyes.   
“Morning sleeping beauty. How you feeling?”   
He turned his head to find his doctor, whose name had escaped him, smiling down at him. He ignored her question and asked one of his own.   
“How’d it go?”  
She shook her head but she was still smiling “Honestly far better than it could have been. The bullet hit muscle mostly so you’ve got a long road of rehab ahead but we didn’t have to piece the bone together. There was not exit wound which meant you were in less danger of bleeding out but we did have to debride the area.”  
“Abscess?”  
“And then some. Pus everywhere. You gave some of my more novice surgeons quite a scare. But we got a clean margin.”  
“Scarring?”  
“Yeap and it’ll be pretty extensive.   
“Which of course will make recovery more of a bitch. Did I need a transfusion?”  
“You got one initially when you came in but you didn’t need one on the table.”  
“Dressings?”   
“One moist, saline, antibacterial and a dry one to seal it off. We’ve also slung and immobilized the shoulder so you don’t tear yourself a new one”  
She peeled his sheets back to show him. He took a deep breath, hating this.   
“You’ll be in here a few weeks more and then you’ll be shipped to a rehab facility”  
“Will I be sent home?”  
“I would be more than willing to sign that form John…”  
“No! You don’t understand. How can I avoid getting shipped home?”  
She looked at him as if he’d just sprouted a third head.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The wounded man retreats, hiding away where he thinks it is safe. But untreated wounds do not heal, they fester  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Great. Now his surgeon was whispering with all the others where she thought he couldn’t see them. If she referred him for a psych eval he was going to pull up Ella’s notes. She had said he was doing well. He was integrating back into life. He was becoming a good soldier again. Good soldiers don’t beg off home as soon as they get wounded. They get better. They get scars they can show people when they tell war stories. He wasn’t done living his war story yet.   
..............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................  
Sherlock hadn’t moved since Greg left. Not to eat, sleep or piss. It had turned from day to night, warm to cold and he had not noticed. His exposed arms and legs were covered in goose pimples, his mouth was dry and his stomach gnawing on it’s on emptiness. But he noticed none of that. He’d retreated so far inward it had morphed from neurotypical daydreaming into something scarier, more obsessive. He’d fallen into the depths of his “mind palace” and would not be reached for some time. His habit of doing this, albeit infrequently, still frightened his mother who imagined it to be akin to a type of narcolepsy where her son could fall into a catatonic state at the drop of a hat. The truth was of course infinitely more complex. It took a lot to push Sherlock this far and John had done it. That bastard. That wonderful, frustrating, utterly bewildering, gut wrenching son of a bitch. (Sherlock gets foul mouthed when he’s in these moods. Internally anyway.)   
There were too many undetermined variables in this situation to come to a complete solution in the theoretical sense. Therefore the only remaining option was to move into practical hands on resolution. Shit.   
............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................  
John grimaced in pain as his shoulder twinged. The sling meant he physically couldn’t move it and still it ached. Deep undercurrent kind of ache like a creature moving through the torn flesh, purposely treading on all those poor abused nerve endings.   
It would be so easy to alert a nurse and ask for painkillers. But John was a doctor. He could treat himself damnit. He didn’t need someone else to prescribe something, lecture him about dosages and ways to prevent developing a dependence.   
He craned his neck and looked over at his side. Shit. They still had him rigged up to the line, transfusing some generous soul’s blood into him. Being careful not to draw attention to himself he leaned over and turned the clamp on the end of the blood bag, shutting off the flow into the tube. He felt fine. He didn’t need to sit around being drip feed like a baby bird. He waited as the last of the dregs cleared the tube, smiling innocently at the nurses bustling past, and then worked at removing the lure. It was a bit of a job getting the tape off with one hand while trying not to jostle his new stitches but he managed it somehow. With one last look around he whipped the lure from his arm, wincing as the cold needle slid out. In what he knew was very bad practice, he pressed his unsterilized finger to the puncture to stop it bleeding and hauled himself to his feet. Head up, eyes front, walk like you have a perfect right to be here.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Why as a doctor did he feel out of place in a hospital?   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“John?”  
Shit.   
He whirled around, false innocence plastered on his face.   
“Where are you going?” His surgeon, flanked by several others stared at him in confusion and concern. Like he was a lost child. He couldn’t bear it…   
“Looking for the bathroom” (that was believable wasn’t it?)   
“Oh, it’s the other way. Round the corner. I’m afraid it’s no more than a latrine”  
“Used to that” he pushed out an almost painful laugh and went where she pointed.   
He returned to his bed to find them all waiting. His surgeon helped him into bed and reattached his IV, both things he was perfectly capable of doing on his own.   
“Well John we’ve had a look at your case and, while we would recommend your return to the UK, your wishes are obviously an important factor. If you are willing to undertake the necessary rehabilitation, which could be potentially gruelling, it is possible to integrate you back into military life.”  
Integrate him back? When had he fallen out? “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”  
................................................................................................................................................................................................................  
If this computer didn’t start working it was going to be hurled out the window. Sherlock knew mashing the button harder wasn’t going to make it go faster but he got a vicious satisfaction feeling it give under his finger.   
He stabbed the power button and held it, wringing the life out of his frozen laptop before turning back on again.   
“Work, damn you!”   
At last it did, shuddering into life. He went through the laborious task of bringing up the browser, linking through to skype and logging in. Not once did he acknowledge Greg sitting behind him, stirring his tea in a façade of calm.   
...................................................................................................................................................................................................  
It was white noise in the back of his head as his surgeon went through the particulars of his rehabilitation. At least until one of the nurses came bustling timidly over, looking very pale around the mouth.   
“Dr. can this patient come to the office? There is a very insistent caller on the skype line.”  
“His C.O. can surely hold on until I’ve finished…”  
“No ma’am it’s not his C.O., it’s… well I don’t quite know who it is”  
“someone from head office?”  
“I don’t think so, he was in a dressing gown…”  
Sherlock. John clenched his fits. Could that blasted man not give him a moment’s peace?   
“I’ll take it. It’s a… friend of mine.”  
Without waiting for permission from his doctor, John got to his feet and indicated for the nurse to lead the way. She looked torn for a moment and then turned, heading back the way she’d come.   
…....................................................................................................  
“What is it Sherlock? I was kind of busy with my surgeon…”  
Ignoring the tightening in his throat, Sherlock grabbed a pen and pad of paper. “I need data and you are in a unique position to provide.”  
“And this data was urgent enough for you to expect me to just jump to it every time you call.”  
Sherlock’s eyes hardened “As far as I can tell, all you’ve been doing is laying in bed. Surely you can take time out from that for a moment.”  
“Look you smug prick I’ve just come out of life threatening surgery…”  
Sherlock masked that awful feeling in his throat, feigning a cough and ploughed on “exactly. You are out of surgery and available for questions. Do stop blithering on, you are rapidly becoming vapid.”  
Setting his jaw and recalling all the patience he’d learnt dealing with a drunken sister, John calmed himself. “What did you want to know?”   
Sherlock clicked his pen “I want to know what happened when you got shot.”  
...........................................................................................................................................................................................  
Everything is falling down.   
There is no air   
John is drowning   
His shoulder is on fire.   
“Somebody get in here! We have a patient having an anxiety attack.”  
John was out of the chair on his knees. When did that happen? Who stole the air? His heart hammered in his chest. Hands on his arms, on his back.   
“Close your eyes and breathe mate. You’re in hospital, you’re safe”  
His doctor is beside him, all the fragile faith in him, all the belief that he is strong and able is withering in her eyes. Behind him can hear Sherlock clear as day.   
….......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................  
Sherlock pushed away from the desk, hurling the paper and pen across the room. “Honestly! If the man can’t answer a simple question what is the point of him?”  
“Sherlock? What did you do?” Lestrade set his tea down and hurried to see.   
“I merely asked a question. It’s John who’s devolved into a fit of hysterics.”  
Greg grabbed the computer, taking in the chaos happening a million miles away. “Oh my god Sherlock! John I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. If I’d known I’d have stopped him. Oh John."  
…........................................................................  
He’s helped back into the chair and there’s a mask at his face, forcing him to breathe regularly. Nurses hovered all around him. But nobody thought to turn the computer off. John heard every word, every callous sentence. He knew he’d shattered everyone’s confidence and probably his chances at avoiding a discharge. Anger stirred, a beast in his belly.   
Wrenching the mask away, John summoned enough breath to reply “If I’m so useless to you and you to me then fuck it. I was better off without you anyway.”  
Slamming the lid of the laptop down, he doubles over and draws on the oxygen like a drowning man.   
Silence is black and inky, a miasma infinitely more terrifying than boredom.   
“What did you say that for?!?” Lestrade turned on the detective, hating the cool disdain on his face.   
Sherlock’s lip curled “He asks to be treated normally. Wasn’t it kinder to humour him, to make some use of this?”  
“KIND?!” Lestrade dragged his hand across his face “No Sherlock that wasn’t kind. That was nothing like kind. That was abject cruelty.”  
“If he’s going to be soppy about it then I don’t need him!”  
“You need him far more than you’d ever care to admit!”  
“No I don’t! I don’t need him and I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”  
“Sherlock…”  
“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!”  
When he opened his eyes, he’d gotten his wish. He was utterly alone in the cold dark room.


End file.
